


The Screaming of the Lambs

by theimpossiblegeekygrrl



Series: Complement [1]
Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Hannibal: Season 4, Illustrations, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Slightly erotic but kind of interesting, Triadic Closure, Unreliable Narrator, sacrilegious themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimpossiblegeekygrrl/pseuds/theimpossiblegeekygrrl
Summary: Clarice’s face went pale with shock before a whisper of pink bloomed on both of her cheeks. “Then the Bureau really does want me gone, served cold on a plate with torchon de foie gras and pickled cherries.”After a fall of grace, Jack Crawford gives Clarice Starling an offer she won't refuse: a chance to find her mentor, before his time runs out. Complete.Hannibal series continuity. I no longer use their fandom tag for personal reasons.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling, Will Graham/Clarice Starling, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Series: Complement [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839472
Comments: 40
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_But I'm glad you've come around here with your animals_  
 _And your heart that is bruised but bleating_  
 _And bleeding like a lamb_  
\- Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - 

* * *

She was only a speck on the dirt path, though a quick moving one trailed with a whip of soft hair. If one looked closely enough when they passed her, they would see the small buds in her ears, or perhaps hear that she was softly humming an aria by Bizet as the soles of her ancient sneakers pounded into the hard earth.

It was March and a cold March at that. Jack Crawford blew warm breath into his hands, cursing that he had forgotten his gloves. Bella would have reminded him of such things, most mornings tucking them into the pocket of his coat. He sighed, shifting his weight as he watched the speck increase in size until he could see that the speck wore a grey sweatshirt adorned with a University of Virginia emblem, the hat on her head crested with the letters FBI.

“Agent Starling?” he called, and the woman slowed her run, gently stretching the hard muscles underneath her leggings. Jack noticed a great many things about the people around him, and it didn’t escape him that there was a knife neatly strapped to her left ankle.

“One moment, let me…” She bent over slightly, taking deep breaths and chuckling. “It’s been too long since I’ve run this trail, and it’s gotten the better of me.”

“Please, take your time.”

Her breathing slowed, and after a moment, she straightened, her eyes widening as she realized who she was speaking to. “Forgive me, sir, I didn’t…”

“It’s all right; I’m the one interrupting your morning run.” Jack smiled, holding out a hand to her. “Jack Crawford.”

“Clarice… Starling,” she said, her grip strong as she shook his hand. “But, you knew that.”

“Still, introductions are polite.”

“How can I help you, sir?”

They walked together, her legs working twice as fast as his to keep up the pace.

“I hear you are between assignments.”

Clarice frowned. “One could say that.”

“What would _you_ say?”

She shrugged, a beat passing before she answered. “I’d say the Bureau is taking their time finding a way to get rid of me.”

“And why would they do a thing like that?” Jack covertly glanced at her, seeing a thin line form between her brows.

“It’s unbecoming of an officer of the law to kill a woman with her baby in her arms. Especially when a picture of the event ends up on the front page of Tattle-Crime.”

“That woman was armed-”

“It doesn’t matter, sir.” Clarice stopped, turning her head slightly as she wiped the sweat from her brow. “And it doesn’t matter that the hearing went in my favour. I won’t forget. Neither will the public. Nor will my superiors.”

“If you really believed that, you would have quit.”

She looked at him then, her eyes sparkling with an emotion Jack could not identify. “I’m not a quitter. I’ll accept my fate, whatever it is. But I won’t walk away until someone tells me to go.”

“Then you are just the person I need.”

The line returned. “For what?”

“Meet me at my office at 1300 today, and I’ll tell you.”

* * *

“You want _me_ … To find Will Graham?”

“And Hannibal Lecter.”

Clarice’s face went pale with shock before a whisper of pink bloomed on both of her cheeks. “Then the Bureau really does want me gone, served cold on a plate with a torchon de foie gras and pickled cherries.”

Jack laughed. He stood up, still laughing as he walked to a nearby table. He poured them both a glass of water, bringing it back to Starling. Her lips trembled as she took a sip.

“No, they don’t wish to see you dead, and neither do I. I looked at your file… You seem like the best person for the job.”

“With all due respect, I’m not a manhunter or a mind hunter for that matter. My previous assignments were in Art Theft.”

“Yet before you joined the Bureau, you earned degrees in Abnormal Psychology and Victimology. Fraud was not what you wanted when you signed up.”

“No,” she swallowed. “I wanted to work with you, in Behavioural Analysis.”

“And with your history in the arts… Bachelor’s in French and Italian, Master’s in Fine Arts, you were found better suited to positions related to your interests before law enforcement.”

“I guess you can never completely escape the past.”

“I guess you can’t. There’s also that fact that you knew Will.”

“Not really, sir. We had a brief correspondence after my best friend was murdered.”

“By Buffalo Bill. Who you helped catch, without experience and without a badge, while you were a curator at an art gallery in Chicago.” The beauty mark on Clarice’s cheek, so close to her eye, caught Jack’s attention. It was the gunpowder that never left her skin after her incident with Buffalo Bill. It was in the same position that the French designated for ‘passion’, and it suited her.

“Will Graham should be credited with catching him. He was the one who steered me in the direction of Jame Gumb. I just did the foot work.”

“But you are the one who caught him.”

“And killed him,” Clarice said quietly. “That still doesn’t answer my question, Agent Crawford. Why me?”

“Because of the same reasons you were assigned to Art Theft, I’m afraid,” Jack said as he returned to his chair. “You have a special… understanding, as it were, of the world Hannibal Lecter loves to inhabit, and the one that Will now would.”

“That world didn’t love me,” she muttered, only just loudly enough for Jack to hear. “It’s hard to get taken seriously when you speak Italian with a West Virginian accent instead of a Florentine.”

The accent was barely noticeable to Jack, though he could just appreciate the gentle twang that lengthened her vowels.

“But you still understand it.”

“As an outsider. I never did quite fit in, though not for lack of trying.”

“It sounds like you have a certain measure of objectivity, because of it.”

“I suppose so.”

“Good. You’ll need it.” Jack passed her two items that were very bright in his hand: a set of keys and her gun. “Those keys will get you into your new office and into the room where the evidence related to Hannibal and Will are kept. There is also a key to Hannibal’s old townhouse.”

“When do I start?”

“You started the moment you walked into my office,” he said.

“Sir, why… Why do you want to find them? It’s been three years since they disappeared. They will never be caught unless they want to be found or have finally killed each other.”

“I…” Words left Jack as he pictured his friend, almost seeing him stand behind Clarice, his hand on her shoulder. He looked like the young man he once knew, a little twitchy and hiding behind his glasses. The Will in his mind glanced at him and smiled, but wouldn’t hold his gaze. Hannibal was further back, sleek and dark and still. He didn’t smile, though his eyes held his, almost hypnotizing him with a pinwheel of light that glinted softly. He reached for Will’s hand, and Will took it, letting Hannibal lead him away.

Clarice quickly looked behind her, seeing nothing but a shelf of books and procedural manuals.

“I received this in the mail last week.” Jack handed her an evidence bag.

It was a letter. The cardstock on which the words were written was very, very fine. Clarice longed to open the plastic bag so that she could rub her fingers over the heavy cream. The ink was pitch black and without shine, from a fountain pen that she would bet her Mustang cost close to what her salary was last month. She read the letter, and though it was not written to her, she found herself savouring every word.

_Jack,_

_I’m fine and better than fine. When I look at the evening sky tonight, I see Venus rising. Some of our stars are the same. Don’t look for me._

_Burn this._

_Will_

It was Will’s writing, from what she remembered of it, though the hand was now surer of itself.

“And I received this one yesterday.”

Clarice looked at the second letter, written on the same cardstock. The copperplate writing was so fine that it belonged in a museum, and a part of Clarice almost laughed when she realized it probably would one day.

Her humour died when she read the words.

It was a recipe. The first ingredient was Paschal Lamb.


	2. Chapter 2

Priming and stretching a canvas is a simple task, though simple tasks are not always easy. It is much like preparing, say, one’s _mise en place_ before cooking a four-course dinner for a lover. Seemingly simple, though requiring a person of skill and dedication. A liver sliced without precision will not cook evenly; likewise, a canvas not prepared with care will buckle under the weight of the paint stroked upon it. Just like a master chef may have their sous prepare the _mise_ , many artists chose to have their canvas stretched for them, so that they may create a masterpiece at their leisure. 

Clarice is not above such work. Indeed, she embraces the tedium of it with the passion she once afforded to find an art forger. We see her now, in the tiny workroom inside of her tiny Georgetown apartment, selecting the perfect piece of raw linen to work with. When she finds one without blemish, or perhaps with the perfect blemishes for her painting, she smiles. The process will take time, and it is not one for those who lean towards impatience. Clarice is not impatient, for she knows that the best things come to those who wait.

The ancient stereo in the corner is playing Mozart, and she hums the tune to herself as she measures and mixes the water and rabbit skin glue. It will have to sit overnight before she heats it, and then will have to sit in the refrigerator for another night before she can use it. Lucky for Clarice, she always has extra on hand, and as she takes it from the fridge after she pours herself a glass of Scotch, carrying both back to her workroom.

She paints the linen with the glue, careful to coat it evenly. It reminds her of frosting a layered vanilla cake. In fact, once it dries slightly, she carefully presses the newly formed gel into the linen with a cake knife. She examines her work, delicately removing the excess before leaving the room for now. It must dry, and then the process must be repeated. There are more steps after this one of course, and then it will be two more weeks before she can even consider touching a speck of paint to the new canvas. But time is all Clarice has, as she has been charged with an impossible task.

We leave Clarice for now as she turns off the light, taking her Scotch with her. Mozart is still playing in the background as she tucks herself into a small bed covered with a blood-red duvet.

When she turns out the light, it looks quite black in the moonlight.

* * *

“Mr Krendler? To what do I owe the displeasure of your presence?”

Paul Krendler smiled at Clarice, like a wolf about to catch its prey. Clarice smiled back, her lips curling into a snarl. “Special Agent Starling… how are you enjoying your new assignment?”

“Just fine, thank you.” Clarice turned her back to him, hoping he would take his digs at her and leave.

“Jest fiiiine? Jesus, Starling, you sound more and more like a hick every time you open your mouth.”

She bit her lip, tasting blood as she picked up Hannibal Lecter’s earliest date book and turned to face him. “Am I going to find you there, Paul? I’d be terrified, considering so many of his patients either died or disappeared.”

Paul hitched in a breath, and Clarice grinned with the knowledge that she could make it sting.

“Is that a threat, Starling?”

“Of course not, sir. Just an observation. What do you want?”

“I was just checking on you.” Paul stared at one of Lecter’s drawing that Clarice had hung on the wall, putting on his reading glasses as he looked closer. “Making sure you weren’t buried underneath the piles of evidence you have to work with.”

“I wouldn’t call this evidence. This is…” She waved a hand around. “This is a man’s life. The lives of two men, woven together.”

“Like two fairies in a bad porno.”

 _Jesus, the man was crass and rude at that._ “There is no evidence that the men had a romantic relationship, and even if they did—“

“Knock it off, Starling, don’t get your panties in a wad. We have a dozen affidavits riddled with the suspicion. Christ, Freddie Lounds wrote trio bestselling novel about them. Unless… well, Starling, I didn’t know your taste still wandered to the other side.”

“Just because I told you to go home to your wife doesn’t mean I don’t like a good fuck. I just don’t want to fuck _you_.” The words were bitter in her mouth, but it was the only language the man knew.

“There it is. There’s the fire I was looking for.” Paul leaned into her, his nose close to her neck as he inhaled. “You smell like failure. Failure and corn pone country cunt.” He laughed at his own joke. “You missed your chance. Now you’ll languish down here in the basement, just like Lecter should have.”

“Get out, Paul.”

“With pleasure.” He grinned, still laughing as he walked to the door. He slammed it behind him, the force knocking the drawing from the wall. Clarice retrieved it from the floor, willing her tears to fall anywhere but the parchment. Her vision blurred as she looked at the drawing of a nude Will, holding a spring lamb in his arms.

* * *

“What do you think; what do you know?”

“Not much, not yet.” Clarice shifted in her seat. “There’s so much to wade through, sir, and there’s just a junior agent and me.”

“How much is not much?”

“For now? Just a hunch, if you’ll let me see the letter Will wrote to you.”

Jack raised a brow and handed her the evidence bag as Clarice donned her gloves. She opened it, breathing in the fragrance that wafted up. “How much did you handle this before it was sealed?”

“Perhaps for two more seconds after I realized what it was. It’s been through forensics; the only latent prints were mine and Will’s.”

Clarice breathed in the scent again, noting the traces of leftover carbon with something deeper, richer. Something warm and heady, almost like a drug.

“And Lecter’s?”

“The same.” She took the new bag and did the same, and underneath the carbon found notes of citrus and spice, along with something sharp that reminded her of danger.

“There’s cologne, lingering on both. From what I know of Lecter it would be something handmade, something expensive…” Lecter’s scent drifted up to her again, and she shivered. “Something completely unique. It might help.”

“Take them, and do what you must.” Jack waved her away, his eyes lingering on Will’s letter as she left his office.


	3. Chapter 3

There is a castle that overlooks the sea, far away from FBI headquarters. It's a little-known fact that in some places in Europe, an old castle is cheaper than an apartment in Manhattan. Some upgrading is required, especially for those with tastes that veer to the extravagant. If one looks closely enough at this one, they will see the dogs that bound about the property. They are free to roam though they never go far, for they are quite fond of the ones who feed them.  
  
If one dares to carefully look through the windows on the first floor, they would see two men. They are so comfortable in each other's presence that often words are not needed, though their conversations can last for days on end. For now, the room is silent of their voices as they listen to Bach, both sets of eyes lingering over the pages in their laps. The man with the brown, boyishly curly hair is reading Chaucer, and his partner has the _American Journal of Psychiatry_. The pages turn slowly, as the day completely belongs to them.

"Our names are back on the Most Wanted list. I looked this morning."

"How very odd, that."

"Indeed. What's for dinner?"

The dark man almost smiles before he answers, "Pork."

"Domestic, or imported?"

"A little of both. The pair couldn't bear to be separated. Sad, really. They went to the slaughterhouse together."

" _Hannibal_ …"

"I'm careful. Trust me," he says. His eyes quip up, just long enough for the heat to pass between them.

"With everything but my life."

* * *

"It's an exceptional scent – they both are. But this," the perfumer held Will's letter to his nose, his eyes closing as he breathed in deeply. "Ambergris. It's illegal to use in the States. So sad…"

"What's ambergris?" Clarice asked.

"It's a substance made inside the gut of a whale, so you see the dilemma. Though…" he sniffed again. "The beauty of what the whale's death makes is almost worth their sacrifice. If you would like, I can provide a list of shops who would be inclined to use it, and that list is short. Mostly on the Continent."

"I would like that list. Thank you, Mr Sharpe." Clarice took the letter from him, taking Will in before placing it the evidence bag, sealing him away for now.

"Is this about…"

"I'm not at liberty to say. But your help is invaluable." Clarice took the list.

"Funny thing, about ambergris. Dogs especially are attracted to it. Almost like pigs to a truffle."

* * *

Clarice walked through the door of her apartment, shrugging off her bag as she started to look through her mail. Nothing but bills, and a few envelopes she knew would be about her student loans. She placed them on her kitchen table, hiding them with a piece of sheet music. For good measure, she placed one of her French textbooks on top of that. They could wait, for now. She looked in the fridge, seeing a fresh batch of glue and little else.

Her phone was full of messages that she would never answer from reporters. TattleCrime had put her on their website's front page this morning.

_Clarice Starling Re-Assigned to Lecter/Graham Cold Case: Punishment Enough for a Killer?_

Was there nothing Freddie Lounds couldn't sniff out? She grimaced as she deleted the messages, saving only one as she tucked her phone back into her pocket. At least the picture she posted wasn't one of Clarice holding a gun after killing Evelda Drumgo.

She felt itchy in her skin; more stimulation was needed than what looking through the evidence locker was giving her. Perhaps a drive was in order. Baltimore was just over an hour away if traffic wasn't a nightmare. She changed, sliding into jeans and a sweatshirt before she walked back out of the door.

Traffic _was_ a nightmare, and it was dark by the time she pulled up to Hannibal Lecter's previous residence.

"Holy Mary, Mother of Money," she whispered. She parked her Mustang out front, walking up the stairs as she tried to imagine what it would have looked like ten years ago, twelve years ago. She put in her Air Pods, letting the sound of Chopin drown out her world as she saw the one where Hannibal Lecter was an emperor…

_The dogwoods out front were in bloom, softly highlighted by the candlelight glowing from within the windows. Instead of her college sweatshirt and ancient jeans, she wore a flowing gown made of cream silk. Her shoes were uncomfortable and tall, though not nearly tall enough to put her at eye level with her host._

_"Hello, Clarice."_

_Hannibal was tall, dressed in a dark suit so elegantly tailored that she knew it was made just for him. He took her hand and kissed it, and he could feel his tongue take the barest lick of her skin. She smiled as a blush crept across her cheeks, taking his hand as she walked through the door._

_"We've been expecting you."_

"I'm _so sorry for running late. The office wouldn't let me go."_

_"I can imagine a great many things don't want to let you go." He led her to the drawing-room where Will was seated, a half-full glass of dark lager next to him._

_"Hi," Will said, half-standing as she walked into the room. "It's been a long time, Clarice. How are you?"_

_"I'm well," she said, taking the champagne Hannibal gave her. It was pale pink, and she did not hesitate before she took a sip._

_"Your work, is it all you wanted it to be?"_

_She frowned, lowering her glass as she considered Will's question. "No. But it doesn't mean I don't love it."_

_"It's not as… exhilarating as finding Buffalo Bill once was?"_

_"You found him, Will. I just did the leg work. You were the one who told me he could sew."_

_"And yet, you were the one who happened upon Jame Gumb and his basement of horrors. Saved the senator's daughter and kept her from being part of his Coat of Many Colours."_

_"But I couldn't save Ardelia… now look at me," she said, taking a seat next to Will. She could smell his cologne, and it felt like home._

_"I see a beautiful woman, who is hiding what makes her shine," Hannibal observed._

_Clarice's hand went to her hair. She coloured it a light shade of brown when she decided to change careers, too afraid that she wouldn't be taken seriously as a blonde female._

_"No, not there. Here," Hannibal placed a hand over her heart, and Will covered that hand with his own._

_"What use is all that passion, if there is no place to let it bloom?" Will's lips were at her ear, his breath heating her skin as he spoke._

_"Tell me, Clarice. Has Ardelia stopped screaming? Are you able to rest?" Hannibal murmured._

_"No," she said, her voice cracking. "I can still hear her voice. I can hear her screaming every time I close my eyes. I dream about her, almost every night." She glanced at the tattoo on her wrist: AM-CS._

_"What will it take for her to stop?" Will asked. "And for you to find yourself again?"_

_"I don't know anymore." Clarice's hand went to her throat, touching diamonds that circled her neck like a collar. Tears fell from her eyes. Unable to stop them, she let herself cry freely in front of these two men._

_"Shhhh," Will crooned, taking her into his arms. She could feel Hannibal's hand on her bare back, stroking her spine. His touch was sensual and warm all at once, relaxing her into Will's embrace. She wept as the nocturne played, and the men were her comfort._

_"I hope I'm not spoiling dinner," she sniffed, and she could feel Will's laughter in his chest._

_"Nothing you could ever do would spoil it, my dear," Hannibal said. "It's waited this long, a few more moments won't lead it to ruin."_

_"What are we having?" she asked, taking the silk handkerchief Hannibal offered her._

_"Haven't you guessed?" Will's lips curled as he glanced up at Hannibal. Clarice let her eyes follow, and when she looked at Hannibal's face, his eyes contained maroon sparks of hypnotizing light._

_"You."_

Clarice started, finding herself sitting on the sofa, alone. The room was black; she'd dropped her flashlight. Trying to fight her nerves, she found it next to her feet and turned it back on. The candlelit room was no more; even the mirrors were hidden with dust covers. She stood, ignoring the tears on her face as she walked back into the hall and towards the kitchen. It seemed nothing had been moved or disturbed, and as she shown the light to the floor, she could see the remnants of blood.

She shouldn't have come so late. She needed to see this house in full light, and she flicked the switches just to make sure the electricity was indeed off. Shaking her head, she decided to come back tomorrow and bring Landon with her, when something caught her eye. For a moment, she thought she could see Hannibal, chef's knife in hand as he expertly sliced a shank of veal, but the image disappeared like smoke as her eyes focused on the bottle of wine. The three glasses next to it glittered as her flashlight fell to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

"Tell me about the wine," Jack said. He and Landon were at her side, light now filling the house as more officers moved around them.

"It's a Chateau D'Yquem. Judging from the wine left in the next room, it's one of Hannibal's favourites," Landon answered. He looked through old photos and logs. "But nothing from his wine cellar is missing. This is new. No dust on the wine glasses, or on the bottle."

Jack looked at the bottle. "Does the year 1984 have any significance to Hannibal?"

"Not that I know of. Yet," Clarice answered. It was her birth year, though that wouldn't make it special to anyone in this room.

"Start looking. Check his datebooks, newspaper clippings, Ripper victims – I don't care. It was probably someone's idea of a stupid prank, especially since the article – "Jack stopped, really looking at Clarice for the first time he walked into this house of hell. "Are you okay?"

"Right as rain," she said.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No ghosts here," Clarice said, her voice overly bright. "Just us chickens."

"Come during the day, next time. This place is terrifying enough. In the dark, alone, with one flashlight… you're either very brave or very –"

"I got it, Jack," she said quickly. "Don't be a hero."

Jack frowned. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"I'm fine, I promise."

"Go home, get some sleep. But I want you back here tomorrow and with Landon this time. Are we clear?"

"Crystal."

* * *

But Clarice didn't go straight home. She was jumpy, and her encounter with Paul Krendler had her restless with residual anger. Instead of home, she drove to a bar. The dive wasn't far from her apartment, and it was one she frequented on nights she couldn't sleep. She ordered one beer and then another, chasing a third with Scotch when the sound of Ardelia's voice started to fill her mind. The alcohol muffled the screams, then dulled them as a good, hard buzz made the room a little hazy.

"Another?" Mike asked.

Clarice nodded, letting him pour her another two inches of Glenlivet. She sighed as she drank it neat, mentally trying to calculate her tab without success.

"Do you want me to get you an Uber?"

"Please," she said, finally catching the eyes of the man standing across the room. He'd been watching her since she walked in the door, and she'd been watching him back when he wasn't looking. "Give me a minute, first."

"Sure thing, Clarice. Just be careful."

She smirked as she stood, or at least she thought she did, taking her drink with her. The stranger watched her the whole time, and Clarice could feel his eyes on her ass as she bent down to pick up her bag. It felt good for a change, probably because she felt in control.

"Hi," she said, leaning next to the man.

"Hello," he answered. He wasn't from around here, his voice betraying a slight accent she thought to be Eastern European.

"Come here often?"

"This is my first time. Not yours, though."

"No. I like this place. Reminds me of a bar from home."

"Where's that?"

"West Virginia." She glanced at him, tossing back the rest of her Scotch as she tried to focus on his face, sadly without success. Hoping she could remember how to flirt, Clarice bit her lip and smiled. "What about you?"

"I come from many places, most you probably wouldn't be familiar with. I settled your tab, by the way."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Of course, I should have. It's been a long time since I bought a woman a drink, longer still for a woman as comely as you are."

Clarice blushed, her cheeks even brighter than what the alcohol made them. "Do you want to… go somewhere?"

The alley suited them both, the brick scratching her hands as he pulled down her jeans. His nose drifted to the small of her back; the warm tickle of breath as he inhaled made her moan. She tried to remember the last time she'd had sex _ ,  _ further still the last time she'd had a one night stand. Those thoughts left her when she heard the tell-tale crinkle of a wrapper and then felt his cock, hot against her thigh as he guided himself into her.

"Oh my god," she cried, moving with his thrusts. His hands were under her sweatshirt, slipping into her bra and massaging her breasts in time with his movements.

"Far from god, my dear. But tonight, I'll take his name from your lips." He laughed, his mouth at her neck. He bit her, the sting alighting nerves she had forgotten existed.

"I'm _ so fucking close _ ," she moaned, putting a fist to her mouth.

"Don't… I want to hear what you sound like when you scream."

The orgasm hit her like a bullet, and Clarice shook in the man's arms until he joined her with a soft groan. He held her close, kissing her neck and licking the mark she was sure he made. Their breathing slowed together, and when she was calm, she felt him slip away from her. For a moment, she wanted to beg him not to leave her, but she swallowed the words and pulled up her jeans. It was what she'd needed, and what she'd wanted. Her mind was still and tired and almost sober, and she knew she might sleep well tonight.

"You never told me your name," she said, turning to look at him. But his face was hidden in the dark. He kissed her, his lips searing hers.

"It doesn't matter. Let me remember this as a dream, as you might. No regrets," he said. Another kiss and he was gone, his shape retreating into the shadows of the streetlights beyond.

She felt cheap, as though she had sung for her supper. But those thoughts wouldn't do, and she walked back to the bar without regret or shame. "Can you still get me that Uber, Mike?"

"It's on the way. Your friend paid for that, too."

* * *

Clarice's apartment was cold. She turned up the heat and walked into her bathroom with the intent of taking a hot shower. Before she turned on the water, she stopped herself. The man's scent was all over her, and she didn't want to lose it just yet. Instead of a shower, she cleaned her teeth, stripping off her clothes and lingerie as she crawled between her sheets. It was warm there, like a cocoon, and as she dozed, she could imagine those strong arms around her, keeping her safe and sound as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The colour wheel is a simple affair, and most people never give it a thought as they move about their day.

Clarice thinks about the wheel often, especially when her palette is in front of her, small dabs of paint perfectly arranged in the order she likes. The oils smell almost sweet to her nose, or perhaps it is the happy, calm memories she associates with them. She stares at the empty canvas, now stretched and primed and sitting before her on the easel, and she considers her first step. First, a tiny dot of white moves to the centre of her palette with a small knife. Next, soft ochre that tones the white into a cream she is sure she can work with. She bites her lip, considering the shade she desires. With a little pain, she dots the concoction with Old Holland Cerulean Blue Light, until the paint turns into a fantastically vibrant shade. It's correct, and the exact shade she remembers from her dreams. She takes a brush and begins.


	5. Chapter 5

The lights were back on, and Clarice walked into Hannibal's home with her badge and gun on her hip.

"I guess this is how the other half lives," Landon said, whistling as they look around. The crew had removed the dust covers last night, and the rooms were somewhat returned to their former glory.

"I suppose so." But Clarice knew this is how they lived. In Chicago, she had attended many a function in homes like this one. But none of them had this intensity or gave her the sensation of not being judged. The pale walls were calming, almost welcoming. The wood was dark, and though it should make the space seem smaller, it only intensified the light. "Let's split up, for now. Do you mind looking around upstairs? I'd like to look at his office."

Landon nodded, his footsteps quick as he dashed up the flight of stairs like he was running a race. She rolled her eyes and walked towards the back, where Hannibal's office had been. Books lined the walls above, more books than most people could read in a lifetime, and there were dozens of paintings and sculptures. She put on her glasses, seeing the room better as she walked around. There were two chairs in the centre, and there was no question the one that belonged to Hannibal Lecter. She sat where he once would have, her body tiny in the large, leather seat. As she let herself relax, she could almost see Will across from her, his body shaking with an induced seizure.

The lights flickered, only for a moment, and Clarice sat up when a bulb overhead popped. It should be expected, and she laughed at her sudden fear. After all, the fixtures hadn't been lit in almost a decade. But it was enough to speed her heart, and as she settled back in his chair, she decided not to let her guard down.

She looked around, seeing what Hannibal would have seen as he listened to his patients. The stag caught her eye first, heavy and dark to the right. It was so realistic she waited for it to move, and she absently wondered who the artist was. Her eyes wandered, and to the left, she noticed the oil painting for the first time.

"Oh, my god," she breathed.

She knew it well, considering that she had painted it.

Memories flooded back to her. Clarice's hands started to tremble, and she brought them to her face. In her mind's eye, she could see her dearest friend, a sheet covering her waist as they giggled while drinking strong red wine. Clarice had almost captured the shade of Ardelia's skin, somewhere between the shade of milk chocolate and fresh nutmeg, but she was never able to capture the way it had once glowed in the light when she still lived. The painting was encased in museum glass, a quick glance around the room proved it was the only one framed so well, but she longed to break it open with the statue of the stag. She wanted to run her fingers over the oils, even if it meant breaking down the expensive paints. Each stroke of her brush had been made with love, and she wanted to relive that time in her life.

That life that had been taken from them both by Buffalo Bill.

Clarice rubbed her wrist, the raised letters smooth against her fingertips. On impulse, she touched the corner of the frame and frowned when she felt a tiny button. She weighed her options, almost calling out for Landon. But her immediate curiosity won, and she braced herself when she pressed down, oddly calm when the painting swung away from the wall. When the shock wore off, Clarice shook her head lightly.

"You son of a bitch," she said, staring at a small recording device. Next to it were a stack of thumb drives. "You burned your notes, but you left the tapes of your conversations. Why the fuck would you do that?"

She donned her gloves and examined the names. Each drive was meticulously labelled in his fine writing, and she took quick stock of what was there. Without hesitation, she took the two that bore a familiar name and slipped them into her pocket before taking a deep breath, leaving the ones that were labelled 'Will Graham'.

_ "Landon!" _

" _ What! _ " Landon yelled back, obviously checking himself when he repeated, " _ What do you need, Agent Starling?" _

"Get a bag and get in here! I hit the jackpot."

His steps were quick, and he entered the room before Clarice had time to smooth her clothes.

"I'll be damned… why on earth would he have kept them after burning everything else?"

"Some sort of trophy? It's odd, isn't it?"

Together they catalogued the drives. With the circumstance, there shouldn't have been any problem with transcribing the early sessions, but after Will was officially a patient…

"Given the fact that Hannibal was brainwashing __ Mr Graham into becoming a killer, I wouldn't see the issue."

"I know, but I'd rather run it through legal first," Clarice said. She had a flashlight in hand and was examining the interior of the safe more closely.

"They could be blank -- just one more game for him to play," Landon said. "I think this is the last one, unless…" Clarice still had her back to him when he asked, "How did you know to look there?"

She blanched and tried to control her breaths before she turned around. "A hunch." The lie passed easily through her lips. "This painting didn't fit the rest – almost everything else in his collection is so… controlled, closed. Nothing is as personal as this work. It seems like it meant something to him."

"The woman is beautiful, whoever she is."

Clarice nodded and turned to the painting, closing it back the wall.

"Maybe an old girlfriend of his?"

"Who would know, anymore?"

"Maybe you could talk to Alana Bloom. They'd been friends for years before --"

"Dr Bloom and her family have been in hiding since his escape, Landon. You know that – the whole world does."

"You know someone who knows where she is," he said. "If you decide to ask."

* * *

_ "Thank you again, Dr Lecter, for seeing me like this. After Alana – Dr Bloom – decided she wasn't the best fit for me, I didn't know what I was going to do." _

_ (A brief shuffling of papers, along with a pained sigh) "Dr Bloom – Alana – is an old friend, and I'm more than happy to perform a favour on her behalf, no matter how inconvenient." _

_ (Pause) "I… (cough)… I don't know how much she told you about me." _

_ "Just the basics, but I'd like to hear it in your words." _

_ "Okay... My ummm… (sighs)… My best friend was murdered almost two months ago. A truck driver found her body near the Ohio River. She'd… her skin had been… (long pause with sniffles) We… the last time I saw her, we… (coughing and a sniffle)… we'd had a fight and didn't leave things well. She was so angry at me and left, and… (sniffle)… I'm sorry, may I have a tissue?" _

_ "Of course." _ __

_ "Thank you… (blows nose)… it's hard to think about that night without (voice waivers)… She was so angry with me, screaming at me that I was breaking her heart, and—" _

_ "Are you a lesbian?" _

_ "I—what?" _

_ "I asked you a question, Miss Starling. Were you and your friend romantically involved?" _

_ "I… we…" _

_ "Miss Starling, I don't have time for this. Considering that you are not paying for your treatment with me, I'd expect you to be more concise and answer my questions honestly." _ __

_ (Silence) _

_ "Is this Alana's idea of a joke? What –" _

_ "It's only a joke if you make it one. Do you want to waste my time and yours?" _

_ "Dr Lecter, I don't… I don't think – " _

_ "Do you know what you look like, sitting across from me with your good bag and cheap shoes? You look like… what do they call it? Poor white trash? Alana told me about you: your scholarship to a good art school, your background in and out of foster homes. Do you think you fit in, here? You've cleaned up well to come to my office, but you're not a generation out of the coal mine, are you? How did you even get into such a school? Was it drawing in the dirt with a stick? Perhaps with your fingers, on the walls of a dusty shack?' _

_ (Pause) "It was in the mud with my father's old shotgun, you asshole! You know what? You can kiss my lily-white ass! I don't give a flying fuck if the university makes me take a break – I'm fucking done with highfalutin self-righteously rude bastards like you!" (Pause) "And you know what? Your high-class taste? It sucks. Just looking at all the shit in your office would make me puke every time I walked in the door. Goodbye, your fucking highness, and good riddance." _

_ (Sound of a door slamming, followed by the rustling of papers. Footfalls, then a harpsichord playing a soft melody.) _


	6. Chapter 6

Red is one of the more difficult colours for Clarice to create. She's never happy with the paints that she purchases, not completely. Vermilion is too orange to her eye, cadmium too pale and naphthol too pink. There is little way to boost the vibrancy of this primary colour, not in traditional ways at least. When she first began seriously painting, she simply would use red as a mixer, choosing not to highlight it in any way in her works.

It took research into Renaissance works, along with a few inspiring conversations with her contemporaries, to help Clarice see what she was missing. But the recipe for her handmade paint is a closely kept secret, and not one we will discover today. Instead, we will continue to watch as she uses her own concoction to enhance the darkness she is trying to capture.

Clarice cocks her head to the side when she is especially pleased with something. She stares up at the result, her head almost touching her shoulder as she gives one of her rare, small smiles.

* * *

_ (Silence, continuing for several minutes) _

_ "Miss Starling. I'd like to thank you again for returning. I wanted to apologize for my behaviour, and I thought it best to do so in person." _

_ (Silence, followed by a deep breath) "Dr Lecter, I'm… I'm queer, okay? I don't use that in a derogatory way, but I don't know another way to describe what I am. I like men, I like women, I like people who are gender fluid, I dated someone who was transitioning when I was an undergrad… (pause) There's not a word for what I am, not one I like. It's still a hard thing to admit to a stranger, considering how I grew up. You were right, about everything. And yes, Ardelia was my girlfriend. We'd been together for almost three years." _

_ "Thank you for your honesty." _

_ "Thank you for apologizing. The last week has been… I was so mad at you, you know? Everyone has been walking on eggshells around me since Ardelia was murdered, and I've gotten used to it. You being so nasty… it pissed me off. I haven't been angry about anything other than her." _

_ "That's understandable. What did you do, with that new anger?" _

_ "I painted. It's usually how I get my emotions out – I take it to the canvas. I've been trying to finish a portrait I'd started of Ardelia before all this, but I couldn't touch it with the emotions I had inside. I ended up painting a picture of you, instead... (pause, along with a rustling sound) I brought it if you like to see." _

_ "Of course." _ __

_ (Several moments pass, and then the sound of dark laughter fills the room) "You've done exceptional work on the horns and tail. What wings you've given me!" _ __

_ "Notice that I've castrated you. I felt that was important." _ __

_ (Chuckling) "What shade of red do you use? I've never seen anything like it – it's quite exceptional." _

_ "Thank you. It's a well-guarded secret, Dr Lecter. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you. And after last week, I'd do it slowly." _

_ (More laughter) "You are full of surprises, Miss Starling. I'd like to propose something if I may." _

_ "Go, Doctor." _

_ "Considering my previous behaviour and your… let's say your 'unique' perception of me? I'd like to see you, informally. I'll sign any papers you need for school, but I think it would be an unconventional way for this relationship to work. You and I will be… friends, of a sort. Two friends who have a standing date once a week to talk." _

_ "Honestly, I'm not sure I could be friends with you. You have my forgiveness, but you were very cruel. Even if you were right." _ __

_ "As were you. Your comment about my taste has wounded me irrevocably." _

_ "Oh Christ, I'm sorry about –" _

_ "I'm teasing, Miss Starling. Looking around this room, I find that you might be correct. Any tips would be highly appreciated." _ __

_ (A pause) "Clarice." _

_ "Hmmm?" _

_ "Clarice. If we're going to try this, you should call me by my first name." _

_ (Sound of someone standing and footfalls) "Hello, Clarice. Would you care to show me what's wrong with my taste in art? After, I'll prepare some dinner. You are too thin in your grief, and I feel the need to fatten you up a bit." _

_ "I think I'd like that, Dr Lecter." _

_ "Hannibal." _

* * *

Buds in her ears, Clarice sat in her favourite chair in her apartment. A glass of Scotch sat next to her. She had tears in her eyes as she listened to her younger self so earnest and angry and rude. Hannibal's voice haunted her, hypnotized her, just as it had when she'd sat across from him in his office. 

"Did you ever think of killing me, after the way I spoke to you? Jesus, I don't know if I'd blamed you..."

Standing, she walked to her pantry, wanting something to take the gnawing sensation from her stomach. It was empty; she hadn't given herself the time to shop since she started on this assignment. She turned back to the Scotch, hoping the alcohol would numb her quickly. Now, instead of Ardelia's screams, she could hear Hannibal's voice, his questions gently prodding into the places she had never shown anyone. Not even to the woman she had loved.

She wanted to talk to Alana. After their doctor/patient relationship had not proven effective, they had become friends. Clarice had enjoyed her company and found hers to be another one of the voices she had missed since her move west. The cell number she had was old, out of service since before Will Graham had started assisting Jack's team with profiling.

Jack would know where to find her or know how to. Jack knew everything it seemed, except for when it came to the Buffalo Bill case. It had been up to her, a tiny artist with an angry obsession, to find Ardelia's killer, who had been the killer of so many other women.

Did she still harbour anger over the FBI's inability to solve the case? Sighing, she found she did, just as much as when she'd sat in Hannibal's office over the many months of their conversations. His intervention had kept her in school, kept her sane, and kept her anger at a controllable level. Hell, he'd even kept her fed most of the time, especially when she'd started to meagrely save for her move. When she came to visit with him, he'd always cook a special supper, sending her home with a basket of food for the rest of the week.

She walked to her bedroom then and looked through her clothes, finding the lovely dress and shoes he'd given her when she'd graduated. He'd also treated her to the opera that night, after the ceremony. Sitting in his box seat with her creamy dress flowing around her body, the diamond necklace her uncle had sent her as some form of apology sitting on her neck, she'd felt for the first time that his world may one she could belong in.

They'd been a striking pair; her fairness and pale dress a perfect foil to his dark suit and to the darkness within him. She'd had champagne that night, and in a moment of dazed confusion had reached for his hand during a scene that had especially moved her.

To her surprise, he'd let her. In the darkness, she'd held his thumb between her fingers, stroking it while the contralto accepted her death on the stage. It had been one of the most erotic experiences of her life. She'd scarcely been able to breathe, even though his breaths had continued as controlled and light as they always were.

At the end of the night, he'd kissed her cheek on the street in front of a cab. "I would drive you home myself, but alas, I have an early patient in the morning."

The oldest excuse and she easily forgave him for it. "But I leave tomorrow. I wanted to thank you for… everything? The conversations, the food. For being my friend."

"You don't need to thank me that way, Clarice. I wish you all the happiness you deserve in your new home. Don't forget what we discussed last week."

"I won't," she said. She tried not to stare at his lips as he spoke but found she couldn't take her eyes from them. "I may never see you again."

"You will, my dear," he said, and with a controlled motion, he bent his head, his lips gently grazing over her own. His breath was sweet against her mouth. "One day, she will stop screaming." The kiss was light and innocent, and she stood on her tiptoes, trying to increase the contact. But, he weaved away from her body, and she missed him already.

"Don't go," she cried.

" _ Au revoir _ , Clarice."

Bowing slightly, he turned away from her and walked to his car alone.


	7. Chapter 7

The room is different, less ornate, though a monster can make himself at home in any environment if needs must.

There is a certain beauty in watching him speak to his lover. One who knew of what Hannibal Lecter is capable of could never imagine the warm caress or the gentle touch that he is capable of giving. There are many rooms in his memory palace, and the room for love is small in appearance if you look from the outside in. However, when he enters the room and examines the few living people who inhabit it, he sees that it grows, though perhaps more slowly than it would for other people.

“You never did tell me, how you met her,” Will says, leaving the question open. They are sharing a sofa, comfortable in their proximity to one another and closer still as they rest in each other.

“I did not,” Hannibal says. He tenses, though in Hannibal it is only visible as the muscles around his eyes harden slightly.

“Tell me now?”

Hannibal considers the question and meets Will’s gaze, still surprised that the eye contact is returned so easily. “She was my patient, of a sort.”

Will touches his glasses, adjusting them in a telling manner. “And did you have conversations with her, like you did with me?”

“Not the same, no. Clarice was referred to me by Alana after her girlfriend was murdered. She was deep in her grief, and Alana had felt too much of a kinship with her to continue their professional relationship. She was in university then, and her department was going to have to drop her for a year if she could not come back to herself.”

“She never told me about that time.”

“I wouldn’t expect she would tell many people or even ponder on it herself unless she was pressed.”

Will rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, relaxing as solid arms close around him. “What was she like?”

“Young. Naïve. Very unsure of herself. I helped her move through her grief, and in that process, she was able to see what she could become.”

“Is that everything you did?”

“No. She was so fragile, a shell of a woman. I thought, perhaps, that I could bring a teacup back together in her.”

Will lifts his head, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s again. “What did you do?”

“I tried to make her believe she was Mischa.” The words fall from his lips easily, and there is no shame or guilt in them. When Will says nothing, he shrugs. “She was so small, so fair. Her eyes the exact colour Mischa’s had been when she lived, like periwinkles in the field. But alas, Clarice had a fortitude I did not anticipate, and it did not work. Instead, I had managed to give her a firmer resolve in who she was. I’ve never encountered a mind like hers, the strength she has. She was far more like Mischa than I ever thought, and perhaps that is why the teacup would never regain Mischa’s form inside of her. I once dropped one in front of her, have I told you this? I dropped a teacup on purpose,  _ and it would not break _ . She looked at me like I was insane. Picked it up herself and took it to the sink to wash it, scolding me the whole time for being wasteful.”

“She scolded you?”

Hannibal nods, revisiting the scene in his mind as he speaks to Will. “She had the ability to do such things without offence. There’s a lot of mothering in her, like the old grannies in the hills where she was born. She could say those things to me and make me feel I deserved it because I did. I’ve never made plans to visit her as I would the ones whose cards I carry, even though I would always carry her name with me.” He glances at Will. “Does this bother you?”

“Are you in love with her?” Will isn’t breathing as he normally would, and Hannibal strokes his back. 

“I could ask you the same question, Will.”

“You know the answer.”

“And you should see the answer in me. If I love Clarice, it is like… when others have a child. It wouldn’t have been possible, without Clarice, for you to have a place. She came before you, and in you, I found that place had even more room, not less for Clarice or less for you. Her return would not change it. I imagine that it would only continue to grow.”

“Are you saying Clarice taught you how to love?”

Hannibal considers the question and shakes his head. “That…  _ honour,  _ belongs to Mischa. But with Clarice, and with you, her broken vessel was given a new meaning.”

Will is content with that answer and relaxes again. Hannibal is exhausted, though his heart rate never comes above its steady beat of sixty-two.

“She was such a bulldog when she asked me for help. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, and wouldn’t let me rest until I’d read every page of her notes. Hundreds of handwritten pages, in that illegible handwriting. Tough as hell, and hard as nails. It’s hard to see her through your eyes as she was before.”

“I had to leave her for her to fully transform, just as a moth must leave the cocoon to spread its wings. Just as I needed to leave you for a time.”

“I sometimes wonder what would have happened, if I’d been sure enough in myself then to pursue her. Would you and I still be as we are to each other?”

Hannibal considers the question, but only briefly. “No. If Clarice had ever seriously considered another, I would have eaten that person’s heart with a big Amarone on their wedding night. It’s as simple as that.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why do you think I was so willing to take you on a patient, Will? You coveted something that was not yours to take.”

“You  _ do  _ love her then, don’t you?”

Hannibal’s skin reddens, and for the first time in years, Will is afraid. “Do not force me to say those words. It doesn’t begin to describe the regard I give to her or to you.”

Will nods and finally understands, touching Hannibal’s jaw with his fingertips. “Words aren’t important.”

“They are not.” The moment fades, and Will tries to relax again, letting himself listen to the steady cadence of Hannibal’s heart.

* * *

Clarice slipped on the dress and shoes, even bringing out the necklace that she could never bring herself to sell. In the mirror, she could almost see the woman she had been when Hannibal left her. The darker hair and the gunpowder in her cheek were not the only tells of just how much she had changed.

She once thought she would marry in this dress, perhaps Hannibal himself giving her away to another person. It would have been bittersweet, even if completely right. But her drive and ambition had changed over the last dozen years, and she could not see anyone next to her when she closed her eyes. She wanted to cry but found no tears would come as she hummed to herself.

When her eyes opened, she could see the ghosts standing next to her, clouding her view of anyone else. Will was to her left, his nervous smile making her feel the butterflies that made her heart giddy. She looked to her right and saw Hannibal smiling at her. He bent his head to hers, this time murmuring the words she had wanted to hear when she was so very young.

For a moment she stood there, letting them hold her hands within theirs, before a knock on the door spoiled her reverie. She was shaking when she answered the door, more still when she saw the delivery man with the large boxes in hand.

“Clarice Starling?” he asked, and when she nodded, he handed her the paper to sign. “Going out tonight?”

Clarice gave him a puzzled look, then saw she hadn’t even put on a robe to cover her fancy dress. “No, just…” She gave the paper back to him, and the exchange was complete. The boxes were now hers, and she took them into her little home.

The largest she opened with some trepidation. It contained a grown by a designer whose name she recognized immediately, even with her limited knowledge of fashion. It was the colour of the deepest aubergines, the fabric light and sheer and irresistibly soft. The second box held a matching pair of heels that would surely make her trip over her feet. The third was small, a single ticket swathed by the deep purple tissue paper that lay inside.

There was no doubt who this had come from, and she would attend the opera without hesitation. She glanced at her watch, and it was early enough to schedule an appointment during her lunch hour. When she put down her phone, she smiled, walking to her workroom and removing her clothes at the door. She had work to do.


	8. Chapter 8

The rotor blades were still in motion as Clarice pulled up to the Verger estate. The home was beyond palatial, a testament to what new money could persuade the hands of the vulgar to create.

She parked her old Mustang and glanced at herself in the rear-view mirror. She looked as Alana would remember her, now that her stylist had stripped the years of auburn dye from her hair. The man had been thrilled to do so, even convincing Clarice into a few subtle highlights that made her pale hair look ethereal in the light. She no longer cared about her appearance, or perhaps no longer feared how it was perceived to her peers, and the stares she’d received in the street when she walked out of the salon did not make her turn away.

A husky man knocked on her window. “Special Agent Starling?”

She nodded, showing the man her badge.

“Come with me, please.”

The receiving room was five times the size of her apartment, and the women in the centre were as still as statues. Margot Verger stared at Clarice, her neck hidden by the high, starched collar of the suit she wore. Alana was next to her, dark and pale and stoic in cream.

“Clarice,” Alana said warmly, rising to her feet to greet her. “I would offer you something to drink, but… this house has not been used for some time. Our assistant will be back soon with lunch.”

“I’m fine right now, thank you.”

“This is my wife, Margot.” Clarice shook Margot’s thin hand, receiving the nervous small with one of her own. “Our son is still… well, still at our home. Safe from harm.”

“Do you think really he would come after you?”

“After taking his toilet, I would imagine that I would be close to the top of his list of the rude,” Alana said, taking Margot’s hand in hers. “We don’t want to take any chances where Hannibal is concerned.” His name was a curse on Alana’s lips, and for the first time, Clarice felt pity for the woman who had been her friend.

_ She was Alana Bloom, and she wasn’t. _

“Why are you trying to find him, after all this time?” Margot asked. “It seems it would be best to leave them to rot.”

“They both sent Jack a letter a few months ago. Will basically asked Jack to find him, without asking, and Hannibal sent him a recipe with sacrificial lamb as the main protein.”

“Why would they do that?” Margot turned to Alana, who smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“It’s not about us,” Alana said, her voice soft and patient.

“I don’t know why they are baiting Jack, or why Jack is blind to the snare.” Clarice took a small drive from her pocket and gave it to Margot. “This belongs to you. I found recordings of Hannibal’s sessions, but only of three people: you, me, and Will. Will’s is being transcribed, and no one knows about the ones I did not turn in, except for the people in this room.”

“You’ve obstructed justice?” Alana didn’t sound shocked, and Clarice shrugged her shoulders and sighed as she looked outside of the window on the far side of the room.

“I think they read about my disgrace, and… I think they wanted  _ me  _ to find them. My presence on this case, without disclosing my relationship to Hannibal, is already an obstruction. I’m not an objective party when it comes to either of them; I never could be.”

“Do you love them?”

Clarice nodded, her eyes returning to Alana’s.

_ She was Molly Graham, and she wasn’t. _

“I’m responsible for this,” Alana said. “I gave you to him, and he did what he does with everything in his life. I’m sorry, Clarice.”

“Then you don’t understand me at all,” Clarice said. “Hannibal did nothing for me that I didn’t want. Even after seeing the files, and knowing what he can do… it doesn’t change anything. I see the beauty in what he creates, no matter how grotesque. I feel that every crime scene, every mutilation… it’s all part of a complex love letter.”

_ For a terrifying moment, she was Bedelia Du Maurier, and she wasn’t. _

“Clarice –”

“Don’t. I know how crazy it sounds.”

“Clarice.” This time Margot spoke, and her voice was rough with emotion. “I felt that way, after Alana and I killed my brother. The eel in his throat, the blood… there was a savage beauty to it that I’ve never forgotten.”

There was no shock that Hannibal had not killed Mason Verger. The photos of the scene had not spoken to her as the others had, and she was glad to know who had murdered the monster. She and Margot shared a look, an unspoken promise from the information that had passed: any secrets would remain so between them.

“What are you going to do?” Alana asked. When Clarice didn’t answer, she looked more closely at her old friend.

“I’m going to have a family again, Alana. And this time, nothing will take them away from me.”

_ She was Abigail Hobbs, and she wasn’t. _

Alana’s hand grabbed Margot’s with an intensity that made Margot wince. “You  _ will  _ stay for lunch, won’t you?”

Alana and Margot watched Clarice leave, the engine of her Mustang producing a pleasing sound as it passed through the outer gate.

“Promise me, that we will never return to this place,” Alana said.

“Will they eat her?”

“No.” Her smile was confident, and when the sound of the helicopter’s engine overtook the Mustang’s, relief entered her chest. “That’s what scares me the most. That of everyone who has died, Hannibal wanted her to live.”

_ She was their Clarice. _

* * *

“What do you think, what do you know?”

“More,” Clarice said. “There’s no question in my mind that Hannibal caused Will’s madness. There was a certain… glee, in his voice every time he drugged and manipulated him.”

“That’s something we already know, Starling,” Jack said, staring at her. “I need to know where to find them. What do you think, what do you know?”

“Alana didn’t have much insight, but I have a list of names, sir, of the shops that could have made the cologne that Will wears. I think they may be in France, or at least they have been to France. Between the selection of the vintage and the rarity of the fragrance ingredients, it fits.”

“Are you up to travel?”

“I could be, as long as I don’t have Landon trailing along.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you going alone. Not after what happened when -”

“I’m a big girl, Jack. If I find myself in something I can’t get out of, I know who to call.”

He nodded. “Just see you don’t get yourself in such a situation, without help.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have Lila make arrangements for you. I’d like to see you there in two weeks, if possible.”

“I’ll clear my social calendar, sir.”

“See that you do.” He dismissed her as he turned his eyes back to the file on his desk.

“Jack?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob. “What will happen to them when they are found?”

“What does it matter to you?” he asked.

“It doesn’t. I was just… curious, I guess.”

“Take your curiosity back to your office, Agent Starling.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Clarice sat at her desk, the door ajar. A small post-it note under her name read _House of Lecter_ , someone’s idea of a joke that she found she didn’t mind. Her eyes flicked up as Landon knocked on the door, and she waved him in with the hand that was not occupied with her morning coffee.

“I’m almost done with Will’s tapes, Clarice.”

“When can you have the transcripts available to me?”

“By the end of the week, I think.”

“Good,” she says, dismissing him. When he lingered at her door, she raised an eyebrow and kicked the seat next to her.

“I, uh, I wanted to talk to you before I finished with them,” Landon said quietly. “Will mentions you, multiple times during his sessions with Lecter.”

“He did?” Clarice feigns genuine surprise, and she motioned for him to shut the door. “What did he say?”

“He… it just seems like you had more than a professional acquaintance.”

“We went out to dinner a few times after I caught Buffalo Bill. He was lecturing in Chicago, not long after.”

“It sounds like it was more than that. Did you - did you sleep with Will Graham?”

“If anyone else asked me that question, I’d punch them in the throat, Landon. It would be good of you to leave it alone.”

Landon frowned, touching his throat as he stood. “This is a professional courtesy, Starling. I won’t take my report to Crawford until after I’m finished. You need to walk away while you still have your badge.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Special Agent Johnson.” Starling’s eyes were harsh as she turned her back to him, and when he slammed the door, she rubbed her knee.

* * *

_ Another in Hannibal’s Harem: Clarice Starling is Lecter’s Forgotten Mystery Woman! _

Paul Krendler had printed the article directly from TattleCrime’s website, in colour. He slammed it down on the table in front of her, making everyone in the room jump, and his mouth twisted into a malicious smile. “Care to explain?”

Clarice knew what the article said, but let her eyes scan over the photo of Hannibal’s head bent to hers. Her lips began to tingle, and for a moment, her eyes dilated despite the bright light of the conference room. It was taken on the night they attended  _ The Rape of Lucretia _ and had appeared in a gossip column the next day. “That could be anyone.”

“It’s you, and you know it. Ms Lounds managed to find a dozen witnesses who recognized you as a frequent dinner guest at Hannibal’s home. She even managed to find his former assistant in England, who remembered you very fondly.”

She refused to speak and wouldn’t lift her eyes to Jack’s even though she could feel his eyes searching for hers.

“Your past with Hannibal Lecter, as well as with Will Graham, has clouded your judgement on this case, which is why you have yet to uncover a solid lead. Some would call that ‘aiding and abetting’,” Director Noonan said, his voice calm in this tense room.

“You bet we would,” Krendler said with obvious glee.

Clarice refused to speak. She hadn’t been sworn, and without an attorney with her, there was little she could say in her defence.

“We are putting you under administrative leave, Special Agent Starling, pending further investigation of this matter. I’ll ask you to surrender your badge and gun.”

She had them ready, placing them on the table with a silent goodbye.

“Do you have a backup or other special equipment?”

“In my office,” she said quietly.

“I’ll ask Special Agent Johnson to escort you so that they may be surrendered, and for you to clear your desk.”

“There’s no need – there’s nothing in that office I wish to take with me.”

“Very well,” Director Noonan stood, leaving the room with Krendler trailing behind him.

She was alone with Jack and could no longer avoid his eyes.

“That man corrupts everything he touches,” Jack said. He was angry, his voice just short of a shout.

“Who would that be, Jack? Hannibal? Or the man who said I smelled like ‘corn porn country cunt’ a week after you put me on this case?”

“I mean Hannibal Lecter, and you know it. Swear to me that you wanted to find them and that you had no other motive to take this case!”

“Only if you swear too!” She stood up and grabbed her bag. “You are too close to this, Jack. You wouldn’t have even spared an agent if you didn’t think he was going to kill Will, and if that didn’t afford you a measure of pain.”

“It’s time for you to go, Clarice. I’m telling you, right now, that you need to leave.”

“Then I’ll tender my resignation by the end of the day.” Clarice didn’t look back when she left, almost running to her car. Only then, when she was in the safety of her vehicle, did she afford a soft cry of humiliation, covered by the hum of the engine. In the cd player was a disc of works from the  _ Clavier-Ubung _ , and she turned the volume up to the maximum as she drove away from the Hoover Building for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, I am fascinated by the gowns Lanvin creates, and in my mind this is the dress that was delivered to Clarice: https://www.therealreal.com/products/women/clothing/dresses/lanvin-silk-long-dress-w-tags-7iqem?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic%20shopping&utm_product=LAN119493  
> But don’t let my imagination limit yours. Ta ta, for now.


	9. Chapter 9

She'd only known Will from their phone calls and emails until he came to Chicago. In those days, she had been the darling of the town (if not the country), the little artist who had taken down the notorious serial killer of women. When he found her at her favourite diner, she first thought he was a reporter. There was something about him that reminded her of Peter Parker, and her normally small smile was almost buoyant when he sat across from her.

"Do I know you?" she'd asked, surprised when he would not meet her eyes.

"Perhaps I should call you fifty times in a row, or send you a barrage of urgent emails until you recall my name." He'd picked up his phone, and instantly her phone chimed a chord from one of Chopin's nocturnes.

"Oh my god, Will!" She all but hopped in her seat, giving him a quick hug that made him tense. "What are you doing here?"

"Giving a few seminars, maybe finding a few potential applicants," he said nervously. "I… I thought you might be here; you'd mentioned several times that you liked the toast."

"You can tell a lot by a cook by the way he makes your toast, you know?" She handed him a piece of hers, buttered and loaded with red jam. When Will's eyes closed with satisfaction as his mouth closed around the bite, she grinned. "Good, isn't it?"

"We're gonna need more toast," he said.

"Order all you want," she laughed. "Anything for the man who led me to… well, anything for you, Will. Ardelia and I owe you a lot." She motioned to the waitress.

Will didn't meet her eyes, his moving to the gunpowder on her face. "He almost got you, didn't he?"

"I could feel the bullet next to my ear, but the police think it was from my gun. I'm still not comfortable with one, but that's going to change soon."

"Why?"

"They accepted me into the academy. My last day at the gallery is at the end of the month. By the end of the year, I'll be Officer Starling instead of a mere Miss."

"Is that what you want?"

"I wouldn't have applied if it wasn't." The waitress came with a fresh plate and a coffee for them both.

"It's not an easy life, Clarice."

"Nothing about my life has been easy, Will, so that isn't a deterrent. Finding Jame Gumb has filled a spot in me that was missing, and if there are others out there like him, I want to be the one to find them."

"Then we may be working together, one day. Officially." He clinked his mug with hers, and they shared a smile as she buttered the toast for them.

* * *

They'd eaten dinner together, almost every night he was in town over the next two weeks. Will's company almost made her stop longing for Hannibal, even though the two men were as different as the day was to night.

Clarice could almost see Dr Lecter sitting between them, his suit impeccably pressed, hair freshly cut and tidy, posture erect and proud. Next to him, Will almost seemed frumpy in his corduroys and rumpled shirt, glasses constantly slipping from the bridge of his nose as he slouched in his seat. But there was an intensity that he was hiding, something that the two men shared and hid in different ways, and Clarice let herself enjoy his company.

Immensely.

He'd slept on her sofa the last night he was in town; she'd gently turned him down after they'd both had too much to drink. And when her dreams woke her from her slumber, he'd run to her room and comforted her as she sobbed in his arms.

"Did finding him not make this stop?" he held her close, his hands in her hair.

"I don't know if it will ever stop," she cried. "I know it's not my fault; I know that when I'm awake enough to see, but the second I relax, I still  _ hear  _ her."

Clarice let him stay with her, accepting the caresses and sweet murmurs he gave until she was calm. When he was with her, she slept soundly, the voice in her head silent as she dreamed that Hannibal was next to them, his presence soothing her unconscious mind as Will soothed her physical body.

When they woke the next morning, entwined with one another and still a little drunk, she'd accepted his kisses, eventually rocking with him until her cries were ones of pleasure.

* * *

"I… I don't want to leave you, Clarice," he'd said at the airport.

"You know how crazy the upcoming months are going to be," she said, willing the tears not to fall. "You know better than I do that I'll be too busy to call you, and you'll be hurt, and I wouldn't know it because I'd still be too caught up to check in. We might as well make a clean break before we can't."

He'd kissed her then, promising her that he wouldn't call. As he walked the terminal, she could see his shoulders shake, and she turned and walked in the other direction as quickly as she could without drawing attention. Clarice didn't see him look back, searching for her, giving up as he walked to the plane that would take him home.

By the time she was settled into the next stage of her life, she'd read an article on TattleCrime that he had been arrested for the CopyCat Murders. It had shocked her, and she'd taken the day off work to sit in stunned silence by herself. She had an exam that night that she'd also skived off, feigning mysterious female symptoms to her professor. Not knowing what to think about the man she was besotted with, she decided not to think about it at all and dove into her work and studies with a fervent passion.

She'd even followed the madness of the crimes Hannibal had committed in his kitchen, fury moving to an eventual acceptance that the man she loved was not who she thought him to be. Despite her anger towards him, she found that her love for him was no less than it had been before, and she'd even considered visiting him at the mental hospital until she thought the better of it. She didn't want to see him there; his glory made small by bars and a small cell. It wasn't right, and it would only upset them both.

Will had disappeared by then, exonerated and married to a woman who deserved the goodness in him. She was eventually accepted into the FBI Academy, still hoping that one day they would meet again.

The news that the men who shared her heart had fallen from the face of the earth after they'd killed The Red Dragon… there would be no calling in sick, and she sat through her classes that day with so much to say and no one to tell it to.

* * *

Clarice was assigned to the Art Theft, despite her desire to follow Will's footsteps in Behavioural Science.

Jack hadn't thought she was stable enough, it seemed. And he wasn't going to risk another misstep, not after what happened to Will.

Clarice never forgot the slight, even if she didn’t show it.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

_If you're gonna dine with them cannibals_  
 _Well sooner or later, darling, you're gonna get eaten  
_ \- Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - 

* * *

Her apartment was packed, the energy buzzing in her limbs from the afternoon meeting was fuel enough to make the work painless and easy. She dropped a teacup in her hasten and watched it bounce next to her foot. Scowling at herself, she took it to the sink and washed it before wrapping it in heavy paper, adding it to the rest in the box.

* * *

_ "Don't go, Clarice. Stay with me, always! YOU PROMISED!" _ __

The fight had started when Clarice shared her plans of moving after graduation. It was well over a year away, and she didn't want to surprise her with the news. Clarice felt the need to leave the east coast, and perhaps find herself in the process. She'd not wanted to break things off with Ardelia, far from it. Long-distance relationships had been known to work, and perhaps Ardelia would join her when she'd completed her own coursework.

In her anger, Ardelia had not been able to see so far into the future and had yelled at Clarice until she packed a bag and left. From what the police had pieced together, the destination had been her sister's home in Ohio.

Ardelia never made it. She had been Buffalo Bill's fourth victim.

Clarice and Ardelia had been through the foster care system together and had been one another's rock throughout their lives. They'd found each other after Clarice's uncle had sent her to the group home after she'd run away for the third time, still trying to find her parents. They were dead, a car accident, but a young Clarice could not be made to understand why they had not come home. Not even after she saw the bodies in the funeral home.

In her ambition, Clarice had given away her only family left - her first love - to a serial killer. It was what she'd told herself until Hannibal had guided her through her grief. She'd entered his office a waif and left a lioness with the drive she needed to pounce.

* * *

The portrait is complete, and she has decided to leave it here with the boxes. A small bag packed with the things that matter most to her is all she takes it to the car rented under an assumed name. She drives away from the city, watching the streets pass by in time with the thumping of her heart.

* * *

The long way was more appealing, and Clarice entered an address into the GPS of the car. The address was the one she had run away from until she was sent away for good.

The house was dark when she pulled into the drive, the hybrid so quiet that the dog out front didn't wake. She did not tremble when she walked to the door, and when her cousin opened it, her smile was overly bright. Jimmy had been an adult when she left, and though he was older, his appearance hadn't changed as much as hers had.

"Do I know you?" he asked cautiously.

"Hey, it's Clarice. Do you remember me?"

"Well, sweet Jesus. I'll be damned!" He hugged her quickly before holding her in front of him. "You grew up, didn't you?"

"It tends to happen to folks, doesn't it?"

"Come in, girl. Do you want something to drink? There's beer and some sweet tea in the fridge."

"Tea is fine, thank you." Clarice walked behind him to the den and marvelled that so little had changed. The room smelled like pipe tobacco and leather, the old rug still had the stain from when she'd spilt her juice after tripping over the cat.

Jimmy brought her a glass of tea and a beer for himself, and for a moment, they sat in silence on the couch.

"Is Uncle Mike home? I'd like to talk to him. I got a letter a couple of years ago, but I haven't heard from him since."

"You don't know? We lost track of you after you were in the papers… Clarice, daddy died last year. He fell asleep out on the back porch, and he never woke up. The doctor thought he had a heart attack. He hadn't felt well for a while, must have been his ticker and not the flu." Jimmy drank from his bottle. "We buried him by your parents, next to momma, if you want to go by."

Clarice sat, stunned for a minute. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Hey, it's okay. He had a good life. Even got to see my kids born. He loved being a grand-dad. Marlene, my wife, went to her mom's for supper, or else she'd be here too. Do you want to stay for a while? She'll probably be back in an hour or so."

"No, I -" She stood too quickly, almost spilling her drink. "I should go to the cemetery before it gets too late and then head on out."

Jimmy nodded and took her glass. "Will we be seeing you again?"

She looked at him, and he understood without her speaking.

"Be good, Clarice. If it helps, he was real proud of you, and everything you've done. He was an old man when you came to live with him, and he was so grieved by losing my mom and his sister that he didn't know what to do with a little girl. I think he felt giving up on you was one of his biggest mistakes, and he spoke about you often."

"Thank you," she said, giving him a hard embrace before leaving. She looked back as she pulled out of the drive. Jimmy was waving from the door, as country people do.

It was fully dark when she arrived at the cemetery, and she could feel the ghosts of her past with her as she visited her family's graves for the first and last time. She placed a rock on their headstones, as Hannibal would have done, and when she tried to pray no words would come.

_ Be good, Clarice. _

* * *

She dressed for the opera with care, donning the few pieces of jewellery she owned: her mother's wedding ring, a small pair of gold earrings she'd purchased with her first real paycheck, and the necklace her uncle had sent her. The necklace no longer felt like a choker or an apology, and she wore it knowing that the man who had given her to the state had done what he could to raise her.

The dress fit her perfectly, the deep purple playing with the colour of her eyes in a way that fascinated her. She put her hair up into one of the few styles she could execute without help. Clarice had ignored cosmetics for most of her life, but tonight she played with a few products purchased on the road. Mascara, powder and a little gloss were all she fussed with as she dressed, though she needed a heavy concealer to cover the almost healed bruise on her neck.

She took a cab to the opera house, and the lights of the building mesmerized her like a child as she looked up. Heads turned when she walked up the stairs, and an usher took her to her box seat, offering her a glass of champagne as she sat between the two men waiting for her.

"Good evening, Clarice," the monster said and kissed the mark he'd made in the alley.

Will took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. "I've missed you."

When the house lights dimmed, the orchestra playing the opening notes of  _ Pelleas et Melisande,  _ Clarice smiled her true smile.

She was home.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s a simple thing, to hide in plain sight. Had they noticed, no one in the theatre would have believed that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were in such a public place. But any roving eyes did not linger on the two men, for they focused on the vision between them, just as Hannibal knew would happen when he purchased the dress for Clarice.

Instead of watching the opera, he watched the pair next to him as they sat in thrall of the music. Their hands were entwined, and every so often, Will would gently touch Clarice’s face as though he was reminding himself that she was real.

Hannibal needed no such reminder, though her other hand was on his, her fingers stroking his thumb until he needed to shift in his seat. She looked at him then, her eyes bright with the knowledge that she could affect him so.

“ _ Tu es ma joie de vivre _ ,” he whispered, and in the box seat, he kissed her, not shying away from her mouth as he once had.

She licked her lips, tasting him there. “Don’t leave me again.”

“Never.”

She turned to Will, who has been watching them with unrestrained delight. “I pushed you away before, and I’ve always been sorry. Promise me that you will stay with me.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers until he kissed her. “For as long as I live, Clarice.”

So wrapped up were they in each other, that they did not see the lone pair of eyes that had been watching them. Hannibal had recognised them before Clarice arrived, but decided to file the information away for later.

That matter would be dealt with.

* * *

The trio left their seats separately, with plans to meet at the dark car parked in a nearby garage. Clarice was the last to arrive, and she smiled again as she saw the two men.

“Hannibal Lecter put your hands in the air above you!”

Clarice froze and turned around.

Jack Crawford was behind her, handsome in his black tie and formal suit. The gun pointed above her was just like her own had been, and she backed up as he stepped forward.

“Get out of the way, Clarice!” Jack yelled.

“Jack,” Will was calm, and Clarice moved towards the sound of his voice. “You don’t have to do this. It’s been years since anyone has been hurt; there’s no need to start now.”

“Bullshit!” Jack screamed. “He’s going to kill you, and you’re too… dammit Will, what the FUCK is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong, Jack. I told you that I was better than fine. I’m better than I’ve ever been.”

“Jack, I merely thought you would enjoy the recipe. Easter was coming soon. There’s nothing more to it.” Hannibal’s voice was strong, close to Will, and Clarice tried not to trip as she stepped back again. “We ate the lamb ourselves that day, extra rare. A shame for one to die so young, but he was well worth the sacrifice.”

“You’re a monster.” Jack’s voice was quiet, pitched low, and Clarice saw his finger move before the gun went off.

She moved towards the bullet without hesitation, not thinking of anything but protecting the men she loved when it hit her.

_ “Oh my god, Clarice…”  _

Jack’s voice was far away, and she tried to lift her head, but everything hurt. There was a loud crack that did not come from a firearm, and Clarice smelled the familiar, coppery tang of blood. She opened her eyes and saw Hannibal’s face and then Will’s as a veil swept over her, clouding her sight before she fainted.

* * *

_ There is nothing but pain, until a gentle sting and comforting words take it away.  _

_ Clarice hears voices around her, but she is unable to speak. _ __

_ “The bullet is in her shoulder. You’ll have to help me, Will.” _

_ “I’m not a nurse.” _

_ “She took a bullet for me. The least you can do is help me undo what Jack has done. Hold her wrist, and when her heart beats, I want you to - just like that. This is easier with a monitor, but...” _ __

_ There’s pressure, like an elephant on her chest, and she cries out. _

_ “Talk to her, Will.” _ __

_ “Clarice, you were shot. Hannibal is removing the bullet. You’re in my arms, and you are safe.” Though Will’s voice is calm, there’s a thickness to it, like he’s been crying.  _

_ “Lucky for you, my dear girl, that I always travel with a kit,” Hannibal quips. _

_ “Don’t.” _ __

_ “You’re going to have to learn to trust me, Will. If not with your life, then with hers.” _

__ “ _ I do, Hannibal. God help me, I trust you!” _

_ There’s another sting, and when the world leaves Clarice again, she’s ready for the rest. _

* * *

The light was soft when Clarice opened her eyes. She saw the open window, white curtains fluttering with the breeze.

At first, she thought she might be in heaven, but when she heard Hannibal’s voice, she knew she was far from it. She was glad to be alive and happier still that he was with her.

“Rest, my dear. You have an infection that set quite fast. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?” He tutted, and she tried to speak, but her tongue was too thick to move. “I need to start feeding you again if you’ll let us fatten you up like the cherub you are.”

“ _ Hannibal _ …”

Another sting before she could argue with them, and then peace.

* * *

She was alone when she woke. She sat up on the bed, a little dizzy from the drugs, but at least there was no pain. Someone had dressed her in a flowing white nightgown, and she peeked at her shoulder, seeing the bruise surrounding a wound closed with perfect, small stitches. There were slippers by the bed, but she left them as she walked to the door with her bare feet. Clarice followed the aroma of food and found Hannibal in the kitchen, a clean, white apron around his narrow waist.

“Look who’s up,” he said. He left the slab of meat in front of him and wiped his hands on a towel. “May I?” When she nodded, he examined her shoulder, smiling with contentment. “I believe you are finally out of the woods, so to speak. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He walked to the refrigerator and poured her a large glass of clear liquid, motioning for her to sit on the stool next to him at the table.

“If you keep that down, I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“As long as you make me your special toast.”

“I’m afraid the bread you were so fond of was made with my own starter, which has been lost over the years. But this new one, I hope it is to your liking. Drink your juice, Clarice.”

She obeyed, sipping the juice carefully until her stomach stopped rolling. “Where’s Will?”

“Chopping wood. He went fishing earlier, and there will be trout for our main course tonight.”

“That sounds lovely.” Clarice finished her juice, and Hannibal took the glass from her, refilling it.

“A little more, and this time with some antibiotics. Still no allergies?”

“No, Doctor mine,” she said with a giggle. The medicine was making her giddy instead of wearing off, and she took the tablets from him and swallowed, even opening her mouth to show him that she didn’t cheek them.

“Good girl.” She beamed with the praise, and Hannibal carefully rubbed her back as she started to hum to herself.

“What is that song? I don’t think I recognise it.”

“I thought you knew everything. It’s called  _ If Love Now Reigned _ .”

“It sounds medieval.”

“King Henry the Eighth wrote it,” she said. “It’s even older than you, though not by much.”

“Such cheek,” he laughed. “So, toast for breakfast. How about a little bone broth to go with it?”

“That sounds perfect, Hannibal.”

He kissed her lightly and started slicing the loaf of bread beside him. A door opened across the house, and there were thumps as Will removed his boots.

“Our patient is awake.”

The footsteps were quick, and Will brought in the scent of fresh air when he entered the room. He looked at Clarice before rushing to her, taking her face in his hands.

“Be gentle, Will. She’s still a little,” Hannibal circled his index finger around the side of his head, and Clarice barely resisted the temptation to show him her middle finger in response.

“I’m perfect, leave me alone.” She leaned into Will, kissing him properly.

“Have you had anything to eat? I caught—“

“Trout for dinner. My favourite. Thank you, Will.” Hannibal set a plate in front of her, toast with a bowl of broth next to it. The toast is already buttered and covered in strawberry jam, and she relished every bite.

“Eat slowly,  _ ma choupinette _ . There’s no use in it coming back up.”

Clarice showed him her tongue and handed Will a piece. “Remember what I said about knowing a chef by his toast? This one is the best. Always was.”

Hannibal dropped a kiss to the top of her head, and she didn’t even feel the fine needle penetrate her skin. It was an insignificant amount of amobarbital and hyoscine, just enough to keep her nausea at a minimum, and with the pleasing side effect of relaxing her inhibitions. He briefly considered giving it to Will, but his friend had grown wise to the sting long ago. He hummed with Clarice as he left the kitchen, enjoying the minor notes in his low range. He would have to pull the music for it, and perhaps play it for Will and Clarice tonight before dinner. For now, alas, he had another patient to attend to, and unfortunately, he was not as pleasant as the woman who sat in his kitchen.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ponders my thoughts*
> 
> *ponders them more*
> 
> *sighs*
> 
> I fucking hate tags, for I find they spoil a work if they are overly used, and I love surprises. But I've updated what's there, and raised the rating to be safe.
> 
> There be smut ahead, my dudes. That's usually not a deal breaker but... I'm going to hell for this chapter, and I thought I might as well warn you first.

Breakfasting took Clarice’s energy, and she let Will tuck her back into the bed in the white room that was hers alone. He held her hand as she dozed, and when she woke, he was gone. The morning sun had left her window, and she thought she might have slept through lunch. She stretched her limbs, wincing at the pain in her shoulder that was not as severe as she thought it should be.

Music drifted to her, and she rose from the bed, still ignoring the slippers as she quietly walked toward the sound of Chopin’s nocturnes. The house was so calm and still, with many rooms that she would later explore. She glided with the music, and when a pleasured moan sounded with it, her body responded as the last of the sedatives burned out of her system. The door at the far end of the hall was ajar, and she peered around it.

Hannibal and Will were in bed; Will bent at the waist and Hannibal moving behind him. The muscles in his buttocks flexed and flexed as he moved, and Will gasped as he accepted the penetration. They hadn’t heard her; the tempo of Hannibal’s thrusts never changed. Clarice shed her gown at the door, approaching them bare and wanting. She sat on the bed next to them, sliding next to their bodies when Hannibal finally opened his eyes.

“It seems that we have a visitor, Mr Graham.”

Will turned towards her; his face relaxed and bemused.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

“You aren’t strong enough to join us, Clarice,” Hannibal said.

“I know. But-“

“You want to watch us?” Will panted lightly, and when Clarice nodded, he looked back at Hannibal.

“Gently,” Hannibal said. Clarice lay next to them and moved her hand between her thighs, sliding into the moisture gathering at the junction.

“You could… tell yourself that, you brute,” Will gasped, and a teasing slap made him laugh.

“If you weren’t so delicate, Will, all the things I could show you,” Hannibal ran a hand down his back, tracing the beads of sweat that had formed between the muscle.

Clarice’s left arm was stiff with pain, but it didn’t stop her from reaching for Will’s hand. He took it, lightly squeezing it in time with Hannibal’s thrusts.

“Such a picture, we must make. The angel and the man, with Lucifer rising above them.” Hannibal was moving faster, and Clarice tried to chase their pleasure, her hand working in endless circles.

“Lucifer was an angel, Hannibal,” she reminded him. Clarice felt the shimmer inside her and followed it, biting her lip as her pleasure took shape.

“Fallen from Grace Himself. He gave up Heaven for his desire, and afterwards tempted everything in his path,” Hannibal said, glancing at Clarice’s quickly moving fingers. His eyes were covetous, though he made no move to touch her.

“Do you two  _ ever  _ stop talking?” Will asked, grunting when another slap landed on his ass.

“Is that how you see yourself? Deprived of Heaven as you walk the Earth?” She began to understand him, her eyes meeting Will’s, and with his own dawning knowledge, Will silently encouraged her. Her hand left her body and slithered to Will, teasing him with her index finger until his cock jumped against her hand.

The maroon sparks swirled within Hannibal’s dark eyes as Clarice sat on her knees, mirroring Hannibal’s stance, and with a painful stretch, she met him eye to eye. “Do you consider sex a Sacrament, Hannibal Lecter?”

“The Church tells us it is when fulfilled in marriage, so it must be.”

“How long has it been, since you took Communion?”

His eyes never changed when he answered, “Since I was given Mischa as the body and the blood… it has not been offered, nor taken, as fitting for the devil.”

“ _ Tu sei l’amore della mia vita _ . You are no devil or angel, as I am neither a Madonna nor Will your whore. Take this from us, in remembrance of what you’ve gained. You’ll never be made to give it up.” She placed her wet finger to his lips, and he licked it before drawing the tip into his warm mouth, biting her knuckle as he soundlessly ejaculated. Sharp teeth drew her blood, and he drank from her until he collapsed, Will taking Hannibal’s weight so that she would not be hurt.

They surrounded the man, holding him as he stared at the ceiling above. Hannibal was free of words and even though for the first time in his life, and he gathered Will and Clarice to him, kissing them in turn as he whispered the words of his devotion.

* * *

_ Clarice dozes again, and when she wakes there is pain. _

_ “Is she dreaming?” Will reaches for her, his voice worried. _

_ “No. I let her go too long without pain medication; the blame is solely on me.” He mixes a cocktail for her, this time of morphine and ondansetron. The needle slips into her vein, and the relief is immediate. Her brow softens, and her breaths ease until she sleeps, a throaty snore escaping her lips. _ __

_ “If that keeps up, I’ll have to find her the same pillow that I bought you,” Will says, and laughs as Hannibal boxes his ear. _

_ “Are you hungry?” _

_ “I could eat, yeah.” _ __

_ “I’ll prepare the trout. Shall I grill it, or prepare it like Dover sole, with a beurre blanc?” _

_ “Well, you mentioned her needing to gain a little weight, which she does… perhaps the second option, if it’s not too rich for her stomach.” _

_ “Sauce on the side, for our Clarice,” Hannibal agrees. “But first, a shower for me. Will you stay with her, until she wakes?” _

_ “I’d already planned on it,” Will says, accepting a kiss. Hannibal’s lips linger, and Will tastes Clarice and himself on them. “You don’t have to say it back, but… I do love you.” _

_ “Of that, I’ve never had a doubt. Not even after the all the times you’ve tried to kill me.” Hannibal nips Will’s lower lip and walks to the en suite, aware that Will is watching him. _ __

_ Will lies back on his pillow and turns to Clarice, tracing her jaw with his fingers.  _

_ “Do you two ever shut up?” she yawns, rolling into his arms as she starts snoring again.  _

_ He laughs and smooths her hair with his hands, kissing her forehead gently. “Not often, love. You’ll have to get used to it.” _

* * *

Hannibal kept dinner simple, though the main course was rich with fat. A green salad to start, fresh flat beans quickly sautéed to serve with the fish, and fruit for dessert. Elaborations were for another time; tonight was about the company they kept at the table. Clarice had accepted a glass of grape juice instead of wine, and when her face grew tense with pain after she’d eaten a second pear, Hannibal had been quick to relieve it.

“I don’t want to sleep alone again,” she’d murmured as her eyes grew heavy.

“Then take your place with us, Clarice. I must warn you, Will has a bad habit of stealing the blankets as you sleep.”

“And Hannibal snores, worse than you do.”

“It’s just the medicine… never had any complaints.”

“I’m not complaining. Just making an observation.”

Will carried her to their bed; he and Hannibal fussed over her as they had done over the previous days while she was unconscious. Like a living doll, she obediently lifted her arms, letting Hannibal dress her in a fresh nightgown that was embroidered with tiny periwinkles.

They tucked her between them and took turns reading the Sonnets aloud until she fell into a dreamless sleep.

If she heard the distant thumping in the basement, she did not mention it, and neither Will nor Hannibal felt the need to explain the sound.


	13. Chapter 13

Despite his years away from the bedside, Hannibal was ever a consummate physician. He allowed Clarice the one day of medicinal haze after the infection cleared before he started the therapy for her body.

One could have said it was for purely selfish reasons; he was ready to have her back to full form, and on morphine, it seemed that she had the tendency to act like a teenager instead of a woman of thirty-six.

He’d made her a simple breakfast of toast smothered with bone marrow, along with a poached egg and bowl of broth, and she’d eaten without a sign of nausea. When he suggested a simple walk, she’d groaned. “I’d rather watch you and Will exercise,” she’d said suggestively, and he’d almost given in to her whims.

“A walk around the cabin, Clarice. The air will be good for you, and just think of the exercise we can have together when you are strong.”

To call the home a cabin was an insult to the expanse of the property. Clarice’s head spun as she looked up at a multilevel manor. The wind was completely absent of sound, and thick trees surrounded them, save for a winding dirt drive. “Where did you find this place?”

“Around,” he said. “I have properties in the states that law enforcement is still not aware of, and we use this one often.”

“Will must love it here,” she said.

“He does. He misses his dogs, but the wildlife and river help him with the brief loss.”

“He said he’d teach me to fly fish, once my shoulder is better.” She paused and kicked a tree root with her foot, and Hannibal pretended not to notice that she was already winded.

“I can take you to the river now if you’d like. Deer fill the forest around here. If you are quiet, you can catch sight of them.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

The morning was cool, and she shivered despite wearing a thick green sweater that smelled of both Hannibal and Will. Hannibal removed the scarf from his neck and placed it around hers, looping her good arm into his as he led her to the trail. They walked in silence, and Clarice snuck glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. In dark slacks and jumper, he still looked as elegant as he did in a three-piece suit. It was odd that the small detail of his bared, scared neck made the man even more erotic, but it did, and she blushed as ducked her head.

“I’d love to be a party to your thoughts,” he said.

“You are, Hannibal, hence the…” she looked up at him, the stain on her cheeks deepening as his mouth twitched.

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat and patted her hand with his.

“I went to one of Dr Du Maurier’s lectures,” she said quietly. His face didn’t change, though the pressure on her hand increased. “I know she was full of shit. I didn’t want you to find out from someone else.”

“Bedelia often accused me of wearing a person suit, and she was not entirely wrong,” he said with a shrug.

“I think the phrase ‘person suit’ is a bit much. We all have a mask we wear to the outside world, and others we wear when we are with the ones we care for. We only drop them when we are alone, or with those we are the most intimate with. She was afraid of what she saw behind yours.” She was breathing heavily, and he stopped for her to catch her breath.

“It’s the altitude, along with your recent injury. It takes time to adjust.”

“I can see that,” she said, laughing.

“You were never afraid, Clarice. Not even when you fought against my suggestions.” He ruffled her hair with affection, and she let him cradle her head against his hand.

“As much as I wanted to become someone else, I already cared for you too much to lose myself in Mischa. Even if it would have made you victorious over time and death,” she said.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me, after knowing of what I take pleasure in? Alana Bloom hides not far from here, and Miriam Lass took her own life.”

“And Bedelia is as a ‘missing person’?” Clarice shrugged, leaning against him as they resumed their hike. “We all have our sins. You just happen to enjoy the more terrifying of them, to most people.”

“But not to you?”

She laughed, and even Hannibal was taken aback by the savagery in the sound. “After the rapture I found in killing Jame Gumb? I savoured his death, even if I didn’t eat him. I revisit that moment more often than I care to admit, and it was one of the reasons I decided to… well, it’s why I’ve come to understand you better, and why I could let go of the anger I had of your crimes.”

Hannibal was very quiet when he spoke, and there was a tenderness in it that Clarice did not miss. “You killed again, after Mr Gumb. Evelda Drumgo is not long in the grave.”

“It was her or me, and I was determined to see you and Will again. I shot her and watched the life leave her body, as she bled out over her child. I have no regret.”

He kissed the top of her head, her hair hiding his grin. “And people call me a monster.”

“Not your kind of people.”

“Will once thought so.” They arrived at the riverbank, and Clarice picked up a stone, skipping it in the water.

“Will  _ is  _ your kind. I didn’t see it in him, during our time together, but I can see the clues with hindsight. The mirror he saw in your eyes, it probably scared the hell out him. I’ve spent a lot of time reading about you both and trying to understand the why’s of my emotions, much more time than I spent with either of you in the same room. The more I tried to comprehend, the more I realized it didn’t matter. Does that make me crazy or sane, Dr Lecter?”

“Neither, and both.” He picked up a stone and gave to it her, and she made the rock skip ten times in succession. “You are very good at that.”

“My dad taught me,” she said, smiling at her reflection in the water as the sweet memory came to her.

“Not the rocks. Your introspection, and the way you’ve come to relish ambiguous morality. If I could find a society that would still publish my work, I’d write a case study about you.”

“I’d imagine anyone would still salivate over your notes, but I’m sure Freddie Lounds has beaten you to it.”

“She already has, my dear, and she came to the same conclusion I have. More or less.” He took a rock of his own, frowning when it would not skip through the water. “I had the opportunity to know her once. She has the same spinning compass you have developed, and she’s a fascinating person.”

“To hear you speak, I’d almost like to meet her. Here, you have to hold your wrist like this, almost like throwing a Frisbee,” Clarice said, demonstrating the skill to him. He tried to mimic the action, but his rock merely plummeted into the water with a plunk.

“It could be arranged, but I’d prefer not to have her for dinner anytime soon. She did manage to sneak into your apartment before the authorities raided it.” He glanced at her and saw no pain in her eyes over the loss. “The portrait you made of the three of us is one I’d like to add to my collection.”

“I can paint another if you’d like.”

“I would. The motions would be good for your shoulder. Actually,” he added, “We created a studio for you, close to the kitchen.”

Tears sprung into her eyes that she hastily tried to wipe away, but he would not let her. Instead, Hannibal kissed her damp eyes, tasting her happiness with his tongue.

“Thank you,” she sighed. Her hands were cold, and he took them in his, rubbing some warmth back into them.

“When we equipped it, it was to be for your pleasure alone. Recovery from a gunshot wound and physical therapy was not what I imagined our time here to include. I fear your shoulder joint will freeze if you do not start working it. Will’s fly fishing would be good exercise, but I’ll admit that I desire your art more than I do the fish.”

She grinned at him through her tears, and he let her kiss him as she pleased. When the stag came to rest at the riverbank across from where they stood, he was not bothered by their presence.

* * *

_There is a small room, in the National Gallery of Art, that is only accessible with an expensive private ticket. The proceeds are donated to various charities for the victims of violent crime. Oddly, Paul Krendler is partly responsible for its inception, for it was he who suggested the exhibit as a joke, during a Congressional Inquiry into the handling of the matters concerning Dr Hannibal Lecter. He is always quick with a line that could be a future sound bite and forgot about the words as soon as he spoke them._

_Senator Ruth Martin did not forget. The seed planted in her mind grew, and with her insistence, the exhibition was created._

_She’s always been fond of Clarice, even after the girl’s public disgrace and eventual disappearance into the arms of two fugitives. Every day, when she speaks to Catherine’s children on the phone or looks at their photographs, she extends a prayer of thanks and protection to the woman that too few people had cared to know._

_The room has no name, as no one could decide exactly what to call it. It contains the paintings and sketches that are catalogued as having been crafted by Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling._

_Scholars marvel over Lecter’s works, and they are universally regarded as the designs of a genius. The most viewed are the series that depict Clarice as an assortment of holy, sainted women._

_Clarice’s works generate more debate, her style described alternately as ‘derivative’ and ‘inspired’. Among the pieces thought to be her finest are the two found in Hannibal Lecter’s Baltimore residence. The first is a victorious Lucifer whose face bears a striking resemblance to the man who owned it, and the second is a young, nude woman in repose._

_Freddie Lounds is her with us, now. It took months of saving to afford the price of admission, and she finds that the money is not wasted on this single night. Her camera was taken at the door, and though she’s irritated by the loss, she loses herself in the beauty around her. Her eyes travel to the middle of the room, and she immediately recognizes Clarice Starling’s last confirmed painting._

_Hannibal is between Will and Clarice as they sit in a field, and the three stare up at a full, crimson moon. When Freddie looks closely enough, she can see the traces of black blood staining their entwined hands._


	14. Chapter 14

Clarice had to lean heavily on Hannibal as they walked back from the river. She felt like she’d been sprinting on the trails close to her old apartment, and it was difficult to find a tempo to her breath. When she got too lightheaded and almost tripped over her feet, Hannibal lifted her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way. Her body was very light, and he cursed himself for pushing her so hard.

Will had returned by then, running out of the door when he saw them coming. “Is she okay?”

“I’m fine, Will. A two-mile walk wasn’t the best idea. But it was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

“Almost as beautiful as the company,” Hannibal said. He rested his cheek against her forehead, and though Will thought it a romantic gesture, Hannibal was merely checking for fever. Her skin was cool, which eased some of his worries. “Let’s make you some tea, and perhaps a snack.”

“May I have more of the broth you’ve been making? It’s terrific. You’ll have to teach me how to make it,” she said. Clarice didn’t see the look the passed between Hannibal and Will as he set her on the large leather sofa, covering her with a warm blanket.

“It’s not a complicated recipe, though I guard it closely. The secret,” he whispered into her ear, “Is something I would gladly share, in exchange for one of yours.”

“I’m game,” she replied.

“What do you use to make your red paint? I almost have the composition of it, and all the ingredients are here for you to use. Save for perhaps one that I could not pinpoint.”

She blinked, then quirked her lips into a smile. “Then your broth will remain a mystery to me. It’s a shame, really; you might need me to prepare it for you one day. I’ll give you a hint, though.” She glanced at Will, who gamely covered his ears. “You’re closer to it than you think.”

There was an echo of a shout that did not change the mood in the room. Clarice’s expression never changed, though the noise was something she had certainly heard. Hannibal almost smiled, and his eyes were very bright.

“I shall give you a glass of Barolo tonight with your supper, I think. It will be good for your blood, and perhaps it will loosen your tongue.” He left the room, touching Will’s hand as he walked away.

“Join me?”

“I smell like fish and mud,” Will said. “I was going to shower until I saw you on the path.”

“I don’t mind.”

He sat on the sofa next to her, surprised when she leaned into his chest and inhaled deeply. “You are a strange woman, Clarice Starling.”

“Just sentimental. My father used to fish,” she said, sniffing his shirt. “You should wear the cologne you wore when you wrote your letter to Jack. It suits you better than Old Spice.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “I keep it to irritate Hannibal. He thinks it’s beneath me somehow, to use something so banal. Since I forgot to pack what he picked for me, it seemed like a good time to bring out an old favourite.”

“I don’t mind it,” she said, fighting the sleepy feeling that was threatening to overtake her. She felt very young and very safe in his arms and was reminded of their brief time together. “It seems like we should put in a copy of  _ Juno  _ and drink cheap Scotch.”

“Do you really want those things?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But I’ll take this forest, the fish, and even the Old Spice as long as you are here with me.” She glanced up at Will, who was looking at her under his lashes timidly as his eyes darted away. “Please don’t hide from me. Not anymore.”

“You still make me nervous, Clarice. I have the emotions of a teenager when you are in the room.”

“What could I do to change that?”

“It’s not you, it’s…” He looked towards the fire he’d built this morning and found no answers in the bright flames. “You are so  _ vast _ like Hannibal is. Sometimes I don’t think I can measure up.”

“Who asked you to?” She stared at him, but her expression was kind. “Is it so impossible to think that you are just as vast and that you are loved for all the things he will not be?”

“That’s such an easy word for you to say. It seems like it’s been forever, since… ” She felt his wound, for she knew that this man would be the only one who would express his feelings in the words that the heart longs to hear.

“I’d rather that you let me show you, just how much space you have in my heart.” She sat up, and despite the pain and her increasing exhaustion, she straddled his lap. She let her hair cover their faces like a curtain, and for a moment they were the only two people in the world. “Regardless, I don’t mind telling you how I feel.” The last one she savoured, as the phrase rolled around her tongue in a way that pleased her. “I love you, Will Graham. I’m still in love with you.” She kissed him, tasting the salt from his tears and sweat. His hands were on her back, slipping under her sweater to trace the outline of her spine. He was already hard against her, and she boldly rolled her hips against his.

The kettle whistled close by, and Will grabbed her hips to make the motion cease. But she was not one to be stopped, and the passion in her veins overwhelmed her senses. Clarice easily took his hand and placed it on the curve of her breast, using her own small hand to make him squeeze her roughly.

“If you don’t stop, you’ll get us both in trouble,” Will said, breaking the kiss with a laugh. “Make no mistake - I want to be so deeply buried within you that I’ve been walking around half-hard since Hannibal suggested that we bring you to us. When you can walk to the river and back, without needing Hannibal to carry you home, I promise you that I will worship you with my body until neither of us can remember a time that we were not one.” His voice was intense, and the fire in his eyes was almost as bright as the flames in the hearth.

She was surprised by his unexpected ardour. After kissing his lips one more time, she rested her head against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, not unlike her father would have. He rocked her gently, lulling her with soft words, and when Hannibal entered the room, he silently put down the tray he had prepared and slipped away from them.


	15. Chapter 15

_ Trauma is wholly unique to the person who experiences such an event, and the study of its effect on the body and mind is an area that Hannibal has examined with enthusiasm throughout his years as a physician. The lure of medicine took him from trauma surgeon to psychiatrist, and in his growing wisdom, he has come to realize that the two specialities are close cousins of one another. _ __

_ Clarice has a difficult time recovering from her wound, both in body and in mind. She has been lucky to leave law enforcement without serious injury, and the irony is not lost on neither Will nor Hannibal that the only ones she has obtained were before and after her journey through the system. Her disinterest in caring for herself has caught up with her now. If she had been at a normal weight with a slightly higher amount of body fat, her cells would have more readily accepted the challenge. Instead, they show her the same indifference she has shown to their wellbeing. Her very essence seems to vibrate with her moral rectitude; it doesn't want to be told what it should do. _ __

_ Even though she laughs it off, loud noises startle her, even the whistling of the kettle or the drop of a fork to the floor. The only times she seems to fully relax is when they are near to her, and Hannibal wonders if the dependency on them is not something he should attempt to sublimate. A dark part of him enjoys feeling so needed by her again, and sometimes expects to see her in his kitchen with the ragged, paint-splattered sneakers on her feet she once favoured, contented in his company as he nourished her with the flesh of the discourteous dead. _

* * *

Clarice rubbed her shoulder as she looked at the work in front of her. Hannibal had found a local artist who prepared canvas that was to her liking, and she was able to start painting as soon as she pleased. She would always enjoy the process of stretching her own, and he'd been thoughtful enough to include any supplies she might need. She hadn't even uttered a word when he gave her a large jar of glue that had no label to identify the source, though his eyes glittered in a way that made her wonder how she could sleep so soundly next to him.

"A hefty jar of rabbit skin, to make my favourite painter grin," he'd said.

Hannibal seemed to want to take part in her process; he was a quick study and was becoming the assistant she never thought she'd needed. His own fascination and knowledge of Renaissance art made her process less of a fiddly nuisance, as she preferred their techniques to more modern philosophies. Even when he did not help her, she enjoyed his company when he sketched at a table close by. The scrape of the scalpel against his pencils should have unnerved her, and would probably have frightened anyone who knew what he was capable of. Instead, it turned into a sound she longed for, and she missed him when he was not with her.

Will leaves him during those times, preferring the outdoors and the river. He's made good on his promise of teaching her how to fish, and her early mornings were rich with the rhythmic cadence of their poles casting in and out of the water. And when there was a fish at the end of her line, Hannibal can hear her glee as he walked the grounds.

Despite her injury, they look back on this time as one of the happiest of their lives. There was a bliss in their isolation to the world that they would never quite replicate again, though not for lack of trying.

* * *

The first morning she woke without her shoulder screaming in pain, Clarice didn't even notice the absence until she had finished braiding her hair. When she realized that she could lift her arms above her head without a good, hard stretch, she ran to the kitchen. Hannibal was leaning against the counter, fit and thin and lovely as he drank his coffee. Will was at his side, their hands and hips touching as they shared a moment that she did not want to spoil. Their intimacy was hard-earned after the years of cat and mouse, and Clarice was suddenly unsure of herself, backing into the hall as she wondered if she wasn't intruding on what they shared. After all, she had been absent from their lives for so long.

She left, unaware that they were speaking of her, as their conversations about her were a new form of foreplay. Hannibal had watched her this morning as she slept, and knew that she was much improved. The man had a room in his memory palace that was full of his files on his former patients, separate from the rooms that contained his Clarice. He'd been tracking her recovery, noting that for the last week that she was finally healing at a rate that pleased him. When her brow had been smooth, her soft snores conveying peace instead of worry, he knew that this day would be her best yet.

"Perhaps you should take her for a walk today," Hannibal said to Will, grabbing his hand and bringing the palm to his mouth. He bit him, just enough to make Will's eyes tighten.

"I don't know if I want to be that obvious."

"Then send her back, as soon as you get to your fishing spot," Hannibal said. "I always send her with a thermos of broth. This morning, I might decide to forget."

"And you would get to see her expression when she arrives at the door and realizes what she has done? She'll probably pounce on you," Will said. "I feel like doing the same."

They hadn't had sex since Clarice had fed Hannibal from their bodies and her blood, and the tension their celibacy wrought was not without an exquisite agony. In truth: they missed each other, and their stolen moments were few.

"You could hunt after her, as she walks up the path." Hannibal's eyes were slightly cruel. "A little adrenaline would be good for both of you, but especially for Clarice. She's worrying too much about her place here. She was listening at the door, just now, and she's gone back upstairs to think of the reasons why we wouldn't want her."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Will broke away from him. "That's… Christ, Hannibal, why would you let her, if you'd realized?"

Hannibal shrugged, staring into his coffee. "I think you would know by now. I was curious, Will, as to what she would do: stay, or leave. And perhaps a part of me left with a mere touch of humanity does not think I should bring my debasement of her to completion."

"You think that you  _ defile  _ her?" Will wanted to punch him, and after a passing moment of restraint, he could not resist the temptation. Hannibal's head did not move from the force, though Will's hand throbbed. He shook it, trying to lessen the sting without success.

Hannibal wiped the blood from his mouth, examining his hand as he spoke. "I've destroyed her, Will. Not by taking her life, but by taking the life she deserves. I've done that to you. I took from you a loving wife and child, stole a career just so I could have you for myself. It was my design, you see." Hannibal flicks his eyes up at Will, a studied move in carelessness.

"I took you with  _ me _ over that cliff." Will shook with anger. "I could have walked back to my life. I could have killed you that night, and no one would have blamed me. Has it ever occurred to you that  _ this  _ is who I am? Who I  _ want  _ to be? I spent years tricking myself into believing that I had too much empathy, when in fact, I am what I attempted to chase?"

"You can always blame me for any of your actions over the years. It worked for Bedelia. She made a small fortune with her tales of woe. You and Clarice could be very happy, Will, without me."

Hannibal looked out the window, and for a moment he could see Will with Clarice, wrapped into one another as they walked by. Clarice's belly was round and lush, Will's hands over hers as they caressed the life they had created. The vision discomfited him, and it was one he saw frequently. He'd had more than one passing inclination to kill them both, though he hoped he would be humane. However, he had not nurtured that fantasy and would not see it to fruition. In the end, his world was more fascinating with the two of them in it, and to kill them would be to lose a part of himself.

Will continued his tirade with increasing frustration. "If she didn't want this, wanted to be with both of us, she never would have taken the case. She saw right through our riddle and understood the invitation for what it was. Her capacity to tolerate our baggage and your bullshit--" Will began to pant, and he scrubbed his face with his hands. "Maybe you're right to see her as a saint. I wouldn't wish anyone to love you as purely she does, but  _ she does _ . I know what it feels like to be sent away. She did it to me, and she ruined me for anyone else until I met you. I will not do the same thing to her." Will stopped as he saw further into his lover than he had before. "And I won't do it to you again, Hannibal."

Hannibal turned away from Will, the action too controlled. When he felt Will's hand against his back, just over the Verger brand that marked him as a pig, he was almost undone. He did not show emotion, not even when he indulged in his pleasures. But he wanted to now, in the only way he could. He grabbed his arm and pulled him close, the action more brotherly than that of a lover, but the man was both of those things to him, and he needed him.

"You once told me that this life is all you ever wanted for us," Will said. "I want this for you. I want you to feel the beauty of what there is between the three of us." Will touched Hannibal's chest and noticed that his heartbeat was quickening. "If you want it, it could be even more delicious than our repast of Bedelia's heart."

Hannibal laughed softly. "There almost was not enough to share. You were lucky that I gave you my scraps."

There was a distant, weakened scream beneath them.

"Do you want me to deal with that?"

"Not really," Hannibal said. "I put a sedative in today's fluids. Just give it time to circulate a little more."

"Are we going to continue this? Do you really want us to leave?"

"No," Hannibal admitted. "Stay with me."

"Will you stop letting her suffer?"

Hannibal nodded, not without some reluctance.

"I don't want to go for a walk this morning, or fish or listen to the two of you drone on endlessly about the correct way to draw a profile. I want you both so much that I almost can't think of anything else." Will's hand slipped down Hannibal's chest, down further until he felt a heavy, throbbing heat. "Go to her, Hannibal. It's time."


	16. Chapter 16

Clarice sat in the centre of their bed, her chin resting on her knees. She had unbound her hair, and it flowed over her like a pale robe as she willed herself not to cry. She could hear them fighting downstairs, not their specific words but the tone, and the crack of knuckle against bone and flesh was unmistakable.

 _She had done this. Because of her grit - her inability to become what Hannibal had wanted her to be when she was young - she had caused their unravelling to begin again._

The sleeves of her blouse were good enough to dry her eyes, though if the tears continued she would have to move. The motion would be to accept her culpability in the violence below, and she attempted to remain in this place of inertia for as long as she could will herself to stay still. There were footfalls in the hall, and Clarice briefly wished that she had packed a bag, then realized she had no possessions to pack. Not even the clothes on her back were her own, and when the door opened, she closed her eyes.

“ _Mon reve_?”

Clarice sullenly refused to answer, but she could not resist holding out her hand to meet Hannibal’s. His skin was warm and familiar, and his touch calmed her.

“I should go, Hannibal. I am a wedge, breaking between something solid.” She could not meet his face, and for a moment, it was their first conversation all over again.

“If you cannot be truthful with me, Clarice, then you are right. This home, and this bed, is a place where I do not suffer lies.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. For a moment, she could see past the mask and into his vulnerability, and her heart ached for him to stay so exposed.

“May I?” He sat next to her, and she could smell the danger that radiated from his pores. Yet she was not afraid.

“Why am I still alive? I was such a stupid, angry child back then. I listened to the tapes of our first talks, and I still cannot comprehend why you allowed me to draw breath.”

He held her hand in his, tracing her lifeline with his tidy, smooth nails. When he glanced at her, his eyes were wet, and she wanted to wipe the tears away.

“I once I saw you as my daughter, Clarice. I would not kill what is truly mine. There was another, once, who…” He was wistful, and he did not continue. Clarice knew he was referring to Abigail Hobbs, but she did not say her name. “You were my own, and you could have been Mischa. I wanted to pour myself into you, spoil you as I never could for her. Even when her cup would not come together in you, those emotions remained. You lived, and I continued to nurture you as I would have my sister. And suddenly, too quickly, you were grown, already leaving the happy nest I had made for us. It was almost impossible to forgive you for leaving me, though I was never far away, was I?”

“No,” Clarice said. She took his wandering hand and moved it to her chest, over her heart. “You were always here with me. That night, at the opera, I wanted you to tell me to stay. I would have stayed. You only had to ask.”

“I know,” Hannibal said. He moved his hand to her neck and caressed her skin, his thumb moving over her lips.

“Do you still see me as your daughter, Hannibal?”

“You are my own creation, Clarice. Your existence makes me feel like Zeus, with a warrior-child born from his own mind and cruel appetite. But my fatherly feelings for you left long ago when I saw you standing in the fog, wearing the white dress I’d had made especially for you. I wanted to take you to my bed, and perhaps denying us then is the only good thing I have ever done.”

Clarice was crying, and she tried to turn away from him, but he would not let her.

“Only the truth, Clarice. Quid pro quo, as it were.”

She nodded her assent and swallowed.

“When you look at me now, and when you examine me in the rooms of your memory palace, am I your lover, your brother, or your father?”

“All of them,” she whispered.

“Is there one that is more than the other?”

“How can any part of you be divided or made small? All the roles you filled to mend the gaps inside me… I would not be, without them.” She sighed softly, and he tenderly kissed her cheeks. 

He caught her mouth with his lips, and she was without thought as his tongue met hers. The kiss was firm and soft and was over all too soon. She cried out in frustration and opened her eyes. Hannibal was watching her, fascinated by her response to him.

“Quid pro quo, Doctor.”

The nod was slight but present.

“Do you still want me?”

He did not answer, silently drawing her hand to his groin and squeezing it against him in a gesture that mirrored her actions with Will.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered and slid her hand into his trousers. “If I loved you, I’d stop.”

_“I can’t…”_

She kissed him, and he was covering her, her back against the bed and his hands tearing at her blouse. The fabric ripped, cooling air shimmering over her bare chest. He was gasping, great breaths heaving from his mouth, and Clarice fully saw the man behind the mask. He was starving, craving what had been denied, eternally filling himself with an endless desire for violence. When he did not touch her, she cradled her breasts with her hands, offering herself to him. His dark head descended, a warm mouth first suckling at her nipple, then drawing it into his mouth. Her back arched from the bed, and she held his head to her, encouraging him to take from her what he needed. Vaguely, she realized that the world had turned on its side and that there were still more facets of Hannibal Lecter for her to explore. Those thoughts faded when he tugged at her slacks, pulling them down her legs with her knickers. With no hesitation, he spread her legs, his mouth on her core, his sharp tongue licking and tasting until she was screaming her pleasure.

She was aware of Hannibal shedding his clothes, but in her daze, she could not see him. She blindly reached out, her hands meeting his smooth and scarred skin. “Please,” she whispered.

“Open your eyes.”

It was almost impossible, but she obeyed. He turned his back to her, and she took in the angry brand at the centre. It was the first time she’d seen it, and she was horrified at the pain it must have caused him. “Does it still hurt you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. He spoke no more, nor did he turn to face her.

She leaned against his back and did what felt right: she kissed him, over the burned and flawed flesh. He made no sound, but she could feel his rapid breaths, and she believed that if he could still weep, the room would be a flood of his tears. She was aware of Will’s presence, but she did not seek his face, only concentrating on the man before her who was so exposed. If she could have made love to him, facing the great scar and penetrating his body with her own flesh, she would have done.

_It made no difference._

He turned and looked at her, and she led him back to the bed, gently pushing him against the pillows. It had been a while, and she was clumsy as she straddled him. He guided her, nudging against her until he slid inside of her heat.

_This… this this this this this…_

There was only the now, the fluid motions of their hips, the warmth against her back as Will slipped behind her, keeping her steady and safe as she moved. Hannibal’s hands were on her, teasing her, making her moan and cry until she began to writhe in exquisite agony.

It was a little death that belonged to him, but it was everything. She was aware of the world just long enough to be repaid with a death of his own, his face mysteriously peaceful as he emptied his life inside her. She fell back against Will, who was kissing her neck. She could feel the upward curve of his lips and was thankful that he was part of their bliss. When her eyes met Hannibal’s, they were content.


	17. Chapter 17

The orgasm had unlocked something inside of her. She had been a tight bud before; now her petals were unfurled, and the world felt raw and deliciously fragrant. The sense of Will’s strong fingers on her arms, coupled with Hannibal’s softening flesh made Clarice tremble, and she needed to experience more. She leaned against Will, feeling his steadfast arousal nestled against her, and she wanted it.

She felt greedy as she reached behind her, tracing his length even as her lover was still inside of her body, but it was right. She was unashamed of her lust, and when Will panted against her neck, she felt a power she had never known before.

She looked at Hannibal, seeking his permission and finding it gladly given. His eyes shown with pride, and she knew this was the closest she could ever come to being given away by him. Will could be part of this only because of Hannibal’s consent, and she found she did not mind his possessiveness. Though he was the one who was branded, she and Will both wore a mark that bore his very name.

“I need you,” she said, and for a moment she wasn’t sure who she was speaking to.

“Let me love you, Clarice.” Will’s voice was achingly sweet, and her breath caught in her throat. Perhaps it had been too long since she had heard those words. No matter what veiled expression of love Hannibal gave her, the clean, naked words still meant everything to her, and she knew exactly who it was that she needed at this moment.

“Love me, now,” she murmured, turning to him. Will kissed her, finally showing her all the passion he had been holding back, even when they were young. This was not the timid fumbling that had been in her double bed in Chicago or even the burgeoning desire they had shown each other in the last weeks. He was a man, and he was unashamed in expressing with his body what he felt in his heart.

Hannibal’s hands were at her waist, moving her, and then he was gone from within her. Her back fell against his chest, his legs twisting with hers as Will looked down upon them both.

“Are you mine to give?” Hannibal purred against her ear.

“Yes,” she said.

Hannibal’s hands skimmed over her breasts and belly, touching her sex. “You speak freely of love. Are you so committed to one another?” He was speaking to Will, for she had no need to answer this man who knew her mind better than she did.

“ _Yes_ ,” Will said. He hovered over them, his hand meeting Hannibal’s. They stroked her together, and the pleasure started to build again until she was half-blind with need.

“There is no need for me to dine on your heart, Will. Perhaps I will pour us all a glass from a magnum of Amarone tonight, paired with a different kind of feast.”

Will kissed him, a seal of promise between the two men.

“Love her, Will, as she deserves.”

Will shifted, and he was kissing her now, his tongue tasting of Hannibal’s. He’d vowed to worship her, and every movement made good on that intention. No more shyness, no more refusals. He made love to her with an intensity short of violence, his hands and mouth bruising her. She cried out in pleasure and pain, and Hannibal was her comfort as he lay beneath her, encouraging him on.

She was distantly aware that Will was making love to them both, and wondered if this act would ever be theirs alone. It wouldn’t be, she was as sure of that as she was her devotion. In the end, it didn’t matter. They had given themselves to Hannibal, and if they were his marionettes, then let him tug the strings.

“Stop thinking,” he said, biting the shell of her ear as Will nipped her clitoris between his teeth. The orgasm stung, her nerves overloaded, and she shook even after it ended. She caught Will’s eyes, and he grinned, baring his teeth like a wolf before he lapped at her. Fear momentarily passed through her, and when his fingers joined his mouth tears ran down the sides of her face.

“Do you taste me there, Will? Or does her sweetness outshine me? No acorns or oysters for this one; she is delectable on her own.”

“It’s perfect,” Will said. “She’s perfect.” His mouth was gone, and she groaned in her need for him. Will slipped between her thighs, and suddenly her focus was his, and even Hannibal’s presence faded away as they stared into each other’s eyes. It was a moment that Hannibal could not participate in, a moment of intimacy that did indeed exist for them alone.

“I love you,” Will sighed. He nudged against her, then inside her, and they were one, fitting together as though they had been made for each other. And perhaps they had, because of the man who had moulded them in his own image. She moved with him, meeting his body with hers. Her desire for him could not be slaked, and when they came together, she was still thirsty for more, and she could not comprehend how they had ever parted.

“Will it always be like this?” she gasped.

“One could only dream.” Will’s head was heavy on her chest, and she welcomed him.

“It will be,” Hannibal said.

She looked up at him, dazedly confused, and he smiled as he kissed her.

“It is because you are the answer to Samson’s riddle, my dear. You are the honey in the lion.”

* * *

He lay next to them, watching them as they slept in each other’s arms. It was only mid-morning, too early for him to doze, even though his body was wonderfully fatigued.

Will’s hair was tousled, a curly lock covering his eyes, and Hannibal could not resist smoothing it away. The action made his chest ache curiously, but he ignored it as he turned to Clarice. She was at peace, for now, and even in sleep, her hands pressed into Will’s body with a familiar and possessive posture. Hannibal did not resist mimicking it, and his mouth twitched when he realized that she mirrored his own gestures.

“ _Clarice_. My own, flawless creation. The wisest of us all, and perhaps the best of us. Certainly, the best of me,” he said, his voice raw. “Make no mistake, Will. I have given you a helpmeet that will give you what I cannot, who will aide you in any dozen labours that would be born of your troubles. Even if I am the one who made them.” The deep, abiding affection he felt for them was bared, even if he was the only witness to the event. He allowed it to last only for a few moments, pondering his mind as he rose from the bed. Hannibal walked to the window, naked and bathed in the sun, feeling the beauty until he could stand it no more.


	18. Chapter 18

Clarice felt very smart in her new suit and shoes. Prada, an expensive treat to herself after landing an artist so famous that her boss had blubbered with pride. She wore it today, figuring that if she was going to have to do the FBI's job for them, she might as well look nothing like an agent.

"Hi, I know you don't know me. I'm Clarice Starling, and I was looking for Mrs Ruth Anne Lippman. Are you her son by any chance?"

The odd man in front of her glanced at her with appreciation, and she smiled.

"No, she ummm… She died a long time ago. I bought the place from her son a few years back."

"Do you happen to have any contact information for her family, or… anyone? Maybe one of her old seamstresses? My father used to bring his suits to her, and he's been after me to find someone who can do alterations like she did." The lie slid easily from her lips, and she smiled a little wider to cover so small a sin.

"Yeah, I think I have Nick's phone number in the kitchen. Do you want to come in?" He held the door open for her, and Clarice walked through Jame Gumb's front door with the trust she'd had when she walked into Hannibal's office.

"This is a nice place, sir."

"Gordon. John Gordon," he said, looking at her over his shoulder.

"Mr Gordon, how long did you say you lived here?"

"Five years, maybe six? It's easy to lose track of time. You ask a lot of questions. You aren't a cop, are you?"

"Me? Christ no, I help run an art gallery downtown." She looked around the kitchen, taking in the dirty dishes by to the sink. A sewing table sat where a kitchenette should have been. There were scraps of leather next to it, and it looked like he was sewing a jacket. "Did you work for Mrs Lippman? Maybe I could give my dad your name instead."

"I don't really tailor suits anymore. I just," he giggled, and quickly stopped himself. "I just make things for fun now."

"What are you making? That leather looks so soft."

"A coat. I've been looking for the right pieces for ages, and it's finally coming together. Do you mind waiting here for just a minute? I think it's in my bedroom."

"Thank you, Mr Gordon," she said, and he left the room. She gazed at the table, seeing leather in all colours and textures. The quality was astounding, and she found herself wanting to touch it. She looked around, and seeing that he had not come back, she picked up the square closest to the top. It was a rich shade of mocha, and it almost glowed, even in the fluorescent lights. Something caught her eye, and she looked down at the swatch underneath. That's when she saw it, something that had been as familiar to her as her own hand. The swatch of leather underneath bore a mark, exactly like the birthmark on Ardelia's back. It was shaped almost like a butterfly, had been the colour of warm, dark chocolate. Her legs felt weak when her mind began to race instead of stuttering, and she had to catch her breath.

"Here, I think this is what you are looking for," Mr Gordon said and placed the card between them.

"Thank you, sir." Clarice slid her finger over her bag and felt the outline of the small pistol at the bottom. "Would it be okay if I used your phone? I left mine on the L."

Jame Gumb glanced at the table and saw that his precious pile of skin had been disturbed. The piece with the beautiful mark was at the top, and when he looked up, he saw that Clarice's eyes had never moved. She was staring at him, through him. And she knew him. And when he met her eyes, they knew each other.

"My cell phone is in the living room. I'll just go get it."

"Stop, you bastard! Freeze!"

He tilted his head and smiled, showing very white and very sharp teeth. "You aren't a cop. And I doubt anyone would miss you." The gun appeared from behind his back, and he lunged at her.

It felt like an eternity, and before Clarice fired her gun, she considered her options. She could aim for his arm or his leg and spare a life, in turn stopping the death that surrounded her in this place. Her finger pressed against the trigger, and she remembered Hannibal's words, spoken a year ago during their last supper. He'd fed her squab that night, and the bird was so rare that its blood stained his lips a lovely shade of red.

_ "When you find him, Clarice, this man who killed your beloved… Kill him, and savour every moment of his death." _

She pulled the trigger, shooting him in the throat. Blood splattered over the skins, on her new white suit and shoes, and she felt like a canvas that Jackson Pollack would have laboured over as he created a masterpiece. The arterial spray baptized her, and in the warm room that now smelled vaguely like copper, she felt completely alive.

She looked down at the man, Mr Gordon or whoever he really was. Her ears were ringing from the gunshots, and at first, she could not hear the gurgling from his throat as he tried to speak.

"Do you… do you see?" he croaked.

As his life left him, the spray slowing down to a trickle of blood escaping from the wound on his neck, she could see.

And she wanted more.

* * *

A year after the disappearances, Hannibal Lector's Baltimore residence was finally packed and closed for good. It had been a long battle between his estate, the families of his victims, and the government over who had the rights to his possessions, and in the end, the concept of the charitable gallery was the catalyst to settling the case.

Before the auctions and the tours of his home, Hannibal's personal items were catalogued and taken by the FBI. The courts decided any items that may give any insight into his mind were the property of the government, largely in hopes of additional clues that could help in finding him. At the very least, they wanted to know if anything he owned could help dissect this complex man.

In a drawer by his bed, there was a secret compartment that Special Agent Landon Johnson discovered while packing the room. It contained a box, much like the memory box where his mother kept his baby photos and her wedding announcement. Inside, there were two photographs and two news clippings that had been labelled in his old fashioned and ornate handwriting. The ones of Will Graham he tossed aside, smirking as he did so. Leave it to one of the 'Murder Husbands' to be so sentimental. The others made him sit hard on the man's bed, contaminating and crumpling the mementoes that Hannibal had kept of Will. He stared at the photo in his hand, the original of the photograph that Freddie Lounds had published before Starling was sacked.

On the back, it read, _ "My Beloved Clarice, 2008, Baltimore Opera." _

The second was a newspaper clipping from the Chicago Tribune. Clarice had made the front page, and even in muted black and white, the image of her in white, with dark blood covering her clothes and skin and pale hair, was disturbing.

Even more horrifying was his red scrawl, just under the headline.

_ "That's my girl." _


	19. Chapter 19

Hannibal played the pianoforte as Clarice recalled the death of Buffalo Bill. She sat at his feet, not looking at him as she spoke.

“Do you still hunger for more, my darling? Or has it eased over time?” He stopped playing, and the room was silent.

She rested her head on his knee as she considered his words. “Do I long for the warm blood of a dying sinner to cover me like liquid silk? How could that even be a question, Hannibal?”

“You make it sound like poetry,” Will said. He was sitting close by, listening to her tale as he would have done a bedtime story when he was a child.

“Isn’t it though?” Hannibal began to play again, and an ancient sonata written by Giustini floats throughout the room. This day had put him in an excellent mood, and he was already planning the elaborate dinner he would prepare for them. He glanced at Will, who met his eyes.

“Will there be a feast tonight?” Will asked.

“Of a kind that I have never had the pleasure to serve. I feel I have the energy of a man half my age, and with a palate as mature as mine, it will make for an unsurpassed delight.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Clarice asked, gently rubbing her cheek against the smooth fabric of his slacks.

“I only request the privilege of your company. Although…”

“What?”

His hands left the piano, and he touched her head. “I would like you to sing for your supper, Clarice. Share your last secret with me, and you will be repaid with one of my own.”

She nodded obediently and stood, taking Hannibal’s and Will’s hands in hers as she led them to her studio. The light in the room was marvellous at that time of day, and her creations were as vivid as living beings. They watched her mix several powders and liquids in a small bowl, never measuring, letting her eye be her guide. She stirred the concoction with a rod, then a small spatula, until it was thick and glossy. This was as far as Hannibal had ever come in discerning the recipe, and he knew that she had yet to give him what he wanted. She hunted around the room, finally finding his scalpel, and turned to face them.

“I require a small sacrifice. Who will be my victim?”

“I would,” Hannibal said, patting Will’s shoulder as he stepped forward.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I’d give you anything you wanted, Clarice. What is mine, it’s also yours.” His lips were close to her ear, his voice low when he added, “Just be gentle.”

Her eyes never leaving him, she took his thumb and pierced the tip, just deep enough to draw blood. He gasped, for though he was prepared for this penetration of his flesh, he could not have fathomed how it would arouse him. Clarice took his hand and placed it over the bowl, stroking his thumb, not unlike the way she holds his hand by the fire. Though his desire for her should have been quenched after this morning, he felt it begin again until he needed to shift slightly.

“It doesn’t take much,” she said. “But it makes all the difference.” When she was satisfied, she brought his finger to mouth and kissed it, a scant drop of blood remaining on her lips when she let him go.

Hannibal stared in awe as she stirred his blood into the paint. She was right, of course. Such a small amount should not have made a difference, but it brought a richness and sheen that was unmatched. She cocked her head to the side as she scooped the lovely paint into a jar, carefully labelling it with her horrible handwriting before tucking it away with the others.

Will cleared his throat, and Hannibal looked to him. The man was just as aroused by watching what Hannibal had experienced, a deep stain of desire turning his cheeks a delightful shade of pink. “Perhaps dinner could be late?”

“Very late,” Hannibal agreed.

“Maybe it could be delayed until tomorrow?” Clarice asked.

“I think the main course can hold for another day.” The pounding underneath them was fainter than it had ever been, though still strong in intent. Hannibal winked at her, and she was weak with the need to break down his barriers once again.

Her smile was deceptively innocent, as she led them away.

* * *

_ The room is silent, except for the heavy sound of Clarice’s pants. Will sits behind her, supporting her, her hands grasping his with such strength that he will have bruises that last for weeks. He breathes with her, trying to guide her through the pressure and pain that continues to build. There are moments of peace when she leans against him to rest, but they are becoming few. _

_ Hannibal stands away from them, behind a midwife who asks very few questions about the odd relationship between her newest clients. With silent encouragement, she motions to Clarice, coaching her as a fuzzed head begins to crown. _

_ He was never an obstetrician, and Hannibal views most children as more of a nuisance than a joy. Yet he can’t hide his excitement. His eyes are bright, surpassing the worry he has harboured since he noticed the change in Clarice’s body. It had first begun as a pleasing change to her flavour, then a tenderness to her breasts that irritated him when they were in bed. It had been a shock when he’d realized she was pregnant, even though he knew it was a possibility. Perhaps he’d foolishly thought them all too old for such a thing to happen; though Clarice was a mere thirty-eight years of age, it was deemed a ‘geriatric pregnancy’, a term he would miss tormenting her with. _ __

_ He watches now, as the tiny spot of blonde hair grows, a face emerging, then shoulders, and suddenly the babe is in the midwife’s hands. Clarice finally makes noise when the baby cries, crowing with satisfaction as she peers down with Will’s face next to hers. He is just as consumed with pride, and tears are sparkling in his eyes. _

_ “Here, papa. Take the babe while I help her mum. I need you to unbutton your shirt, just like that, and tuck her in with you. Your skin will warm her better than anything else can, and it will help grow your bond with her… there you go.” The woman covers them with a soft, white blanket and turns back to Clarice. _ __

_ “Hello,” he whispers. Hannibal stares down at the stranger, who is turning her head to his bare chest, already hunting for her first meal. And he finds that he cannot breathe.  _

_ The eyes…  _

_ They will say that they are Clarice’s, for already the girl is her mother all over again, down to the pale hair that is still matted with blood. They agreed never to test for paternity, for it does not matter, and her name will be the one that they have chosen for when they are in need. But there is no doubt in Hannibal’s mind that this child solely belongs to him.  _

_ For this fragile beauty is Mischa, exactly as he remembers her to have been, right down to the star-shaped baby hands, and the shade of her eyes is the same. They are even drawn to the deep purple of his shirt, taking the colour in them as hers once had. _

_ He will never tell, and if Will guesses, he never confirms his thoughts in spoken words. For she is theirs, all of theirs, to love and spoil as Mischa should have been.  _

_ “Have you thought of a name?” _ __

_ Will glances at Clarice, who nods, and then she looks at Hannibal. They have given her the responsibility to name the babe, and she has taken her time in choosing. _

_ “Michèle,” she says, and he understands that she knows his own thoughts.  _

_ Hannibal clears his throat without success and looks away as Clarice finishes delivering the matter that had first nourished their child. “Ma belle, my Michèle,” he says, humming the tune when she begins to fuss. _

_ “Hungry already? You'll have your hands full with this one,” the midwife says. _

_ The three share a look, and it’s Will who speaks. “Then she’s lucky that there are so many hands to care for her.” _ __

_ “So, she is. Are you ready to feed your lusty little girl?” _

_ Clarice nods, and grudgingly Hannibal gives her back to her mama for now. His girl latches on to her breast, the worry in her brow increasing as she eagerly nurses.  _

_ “How did we make such a perfect thing?” Will says, touching his daughter’s head.  _

_ “We had nothing to do with it, Will. From our goddess, so came this deity.” _

_ “Such a romantic man you are! I wish my husband still spoke of me that way.” The midwife stands and removes her gloves. “I’m going to wash up and start on my notes. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” _

_ Will stacks the pillows behind Clarice, and she eases back against them. Her eyes begin to flutter; she has done a great thing today, and rest will be a gift. Hannibal joins them on the bed, his hand easy on Will’s knee. _ __

_ “Are you happy, Hannibal? You once told me that I shouldn’t breed… do you think she will be like us?” _

_ “Only if we allow her to be.” _

_ “Promise me that no harm will befall her.” Despite Will’s trust in him, there are times when it waivers. He understands, for there are many moments when he deeply regrets taking Abigail’s life from him. _ __

_ “I promise,” Hannibal says, first kissing Will, and then a dozing Clarice, to seal the words as truth. _


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

_You have a heart and I have a key_  
 _Lie back and let me unlock you_ _  
_\- Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds -

* * *

Despite there only being three attendees, Hannibal had made it clear that dinner was black tie, only. Clarice sat in a fragrant bath, an hour before the  _ amuse _ , and let her mind wander as she relaxed. Her dress hung on the door, as white and clean as fresh milk. After the last two days, such a virginal colour seemed absurd. Their explorations of each other's bodies had been heaven, and she longed to stay in this time of awakening desire for as long as possible. Tomorrow they would leave, and even with Will's promises that they would return often, she knew that this would be her favourite of their homes.

_ Home… _ __

It didn't matter. Home was where they were. Not any of the walls that protected them.

She sighed happily and closed her eyes.  _ The Rite of Spring  _ played from the hi-fi in the next room, and she let herself be seduced by the cacophony of sound.

* * *

Clarice followed the sound of precise, staccato chopping. She smoothed her dress and hair, unexpectedly nervous about her appearance. The dress was deceptively demure, the fabric just sheer enough that her body would be visible in the candlelight. Taking a breath, she opened the door and walked inside.

The room was suddenly silent, save for a soft gasp that came from Will.

"You look… amazing." Will stood and pulled out her chair.

"Almost good enough to eat, doesn't she?" Hannibal's smile was teasing, and his words warm.

"Promises, promises," she said, accepting a glass of wine as she sat.

"One I intend to keep." Will kissed her neck and sat next to her, placing a warm hand on her thigh.

A blush crept from her cheeks to her chest, and Clarice tried to focus on the wine instead of the men. "You two clean up pretty well."

"Formalities for our last supper," Hannibal said and resumed chopping the fresh herbs.

"I'm ready to meet your dogs, Will. I bet they've missed you."

"And I've missed them. We have a dependable caretaker, which helps, but…"

"It's not the same."

Will nodded. "I hope you like animals."

"I hope they like  _ me _ ," she said. "I'm the interloper, making moves on their master."

"Are you ready, for the  _ amuse _ ?"

"Yes," Clarice said and looked at the tiny dish Hannibal sat before her.

" _ Foie Gras Bon Bon _ ," Hannibal said. He sat with them, and together they popped the little morsel into their mouths.

Clarice moaned with delight as the flavours touched her tongue. "You made this for me, once, at my last supper in Maryland. I've never forgotten how delicious it was, to pair pickled cherries with the meat. But you've added something."

"Just a hint of chocolate." He took his glass of wine, deeply inhaling the aroma of rich liquid before drinking it. "Hmmm, that reminds me. I have a second gift from my kitchen, but this one is for Clarice alone." He reached into his pocket and removed a velvet box. "These belonged to my mother. I have kept them with me, all these years, and I would be honoured for you to wear them for me."

Clarice's fingers shook when she opened the box. Inside lay a pair of ruby earrings, the colour as deep as blood. They were without facet, the cabochon cut smooth and flawless. Clarice removed her gold studs and placed them on her ears. They were heavy, and they were perfect.

She looked at Hannibal, who seemed very pleased with himself. "I don't know what to say. Thank you, Hannibal, for so beautiful a gift."

"It's good to see them worn again. The colour makes your skin look like cream, and your eyes like the evening sky," he mused. He took another sip of wine, and he did not look away from her.

"Is this the secret you promised me?" she asked.

"No. That is for later. But I may give you another one, in exchange for one of your kisses."

She happily complied, enjoying the sensation of Will's hand moving up her thigh as much as the brush of Hannibal's lips against hers. She wondered if they would ever tire of each other, or them of her, but decided that they couldn't. This was more than sex, more than devotion. The three of them together was a complement of souls. When Hannibal whispered into her ear, words only loud enough for her to hear, her heart nearly stopped in her chest, and she held him close to her.

"Do you two need a room?"

"No, I --" She swallowed and looked up to the light, trying to suppress her tears. "Hannibal just told me that he's making a vegetarian tasting menu. He can't sneak that kind of a shock to a girl with an appetite as big as mine."

Will grinned. "Spill it. What did he say?"

"It's not for me to tell," she said, gazing at Hannibal as he returned to the stove.

* * *

It was the meal of a lifetime, and when it was over, Clarice rubbed her stomach, even as she took one last bite of soufflé. "I can't remember the last time I ate like this."

"At my table, I would imagine," Hannibal said.

"Your kitchen was always the best restaurant in Baltimore." Will stretched, the cup of espresso in his hand ridiculously small.

"Now I take that kitchen with me, as long as I have company this pleasing. I believe it's time for a  _ digestif _ . Armagnac, from an exceptional year." Hannibal poured them all a glass. "While we give the flavours a chance to open, why don't we go down to the wine cellar? I think you'll enjoy what you find there, Clarice."

The stairs were steep, and Will walked ahead of her, taking her hand as she navigated them in heels. The room was dark and oddly humid to hold a wine collection, and it took several moments for Clarice's eyes to adjust to the light.

_ "Clarice?" _

The voice was hoarse from shouting and weak from the medications pumped into him over the last months. The world seemed to stop around her when she realized that the voice belonged to Jack Crawford.

Jack, who had kept her from the job she wanted.

Jack, who had kept Will out of the field when Buffalo Bill was murdering women.

Jack, who had been the lead agent on Buffalo's Bill case.  _ And who had never caught him. _

_ "Clarice, please help me." _

The pitiful sound made Clarice want to smash everything in sight. Just like it always had, but she'd had far too much control over her anger in those days of the before.

"He's drugging you, you know that, right? Please… you can save us both.  _ This isn't you _ ."

"How do you know that, Jack?" Rage built in her skull, making her ears ring. "Who are you to act like you know me?"

"She hasn't even had a paracetamol in over a week," Hannibal said. "No drugs in this lioness. Only a clear mind."

"And a desire for vengeance," Will added.

"I hope you realize that none of your sufferings has been wasted. I took a nod to Garrett Jacob Hobbs when it came to the use of your limbs. Your bones, I used to make nourishing broths for Clarice to drink when she was still barely conscious and dependent on me for the most basic needs. Your flesh and fat were used for a variety of succulent meals; the last of it was tonight's main course. And your skin… well," Hannibal looked at Clarice. "A part of you will always remain on this earth, for as long as her paintings survive. You have been honoured well."

"Rest assured, that as a student of Renaissance techniques, they may still be here long after the rise and fall of nations to come." She savoured the thought as she surveyed the room with new eyes. There was a scalpel on a mayo stand close by, along with numerous saws.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Clarice said nonchalantly as she stepped closer to the bed.

"Why do you hate me?"

"I might tell you if you can answer one question."

"Anything," Jack pleaded. "Clarice,  _ please _ !"

Clarice sat in the chair next to his bed and crossed her legs at the knee. She took her time in tormenting him, even examining her nails as she'd seen Hannibal do when she was impatient for something. "What was Ardelia Mapp's middle name?"

"What?"

"You heard me. What was Ardelia Mapp's middle name?"

"Buffalo Bill's… fourth victim?"

"Yes," she said. "Let's try again, maybe something less difficult. What university did she attend when she was murdered?"

"It's been a decade, Clarice, I –"

"How about an easy one? You should know this, as you were trying to profile her murderer. What was the name of her long-time girlfriend?"

Hannibal coughed politely, and Will shifted, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, Jack. You should know this! They grew up together. Their lives were so intertwined that she should be the first name you think of when you look back on the case."

" _ The first name I think of is yours, Clarice!  _ You found him!"

"Why did I have to find him, Jack? The press kept it out of the news for reasons I'll never understand. Why was it me? What reason did I have in getting so obsessed with the case? It went beyond a mere platonic friendship. And yet you never interviewed me. No one did from your department even cared. You never thought to grace our doorstep, never even looked my way. To you, she was just another one of the dead. But to me, she was everything."

"You… you were… oh my god, you were…"

"Yeah," Clarice said. "I was. I was Ardelia May Mapp's girlfriend." Clarice leaned next to his ear.  _ "You fucking idiot." _

"Are you going to kill me?"

"You're already dead," Will said. "We should leave you here to rot."

"Will, think of the stench," Hannibal said patiently. "We'd never get rid of it, and you love the fishing."

Will sighed. "I suppose you're right."

"If I was a more generous man, I'd suggest we leave and let Clarice do what she must without our prying eyes. But alas," he said. "I'm too curious not to watch."

"Well, that and you're a voyeur."

"That too."

Clarice looked at the tattoo on her wrist. Her pulse beating rapidly just above it, but it was no faster than it had been when she walked down the stairs with the men she loved. She chose the scalpel from the table and held it to Jack's neck.

"This is going to hurt."


	21. Epilogue

* * *

_Don't go in if you are abnormally attracted to sin  
\- Tori Amos -  
_

* * *

The following tape was found in the safe deposit box of Dr Alana Bloom, made public after her death at the age of seventy-eight, of natural causes:

_ "Good morning. Is Dr Bloom free?" _ __

_ "Dr Bloom is unavailable; may I take a message?" _

_ "Can you tell her that Clarice Starling would like to speak to her? She'll want to talk to me. I don't mind waiting." _ __

_ (Long pause, followed by running footsteps.) _

_ "Clarice?" _ __

_ "Hello, Alana." _

_ "Oh, thank God. Where are you? Everyone thinks that you're dead! Your blood was all over the garage in Montreal, and Jack Crawford is still missing! How are you--" _

_ "Hannibal saved me. I'm alive, for the first time in my life." _

_ "Clarice, are you --" _

_ "I called to ask for a favour, Alana. You could make it happen if Margot's name still holds any importance." _

_ "Clarice, what has he--" _

_ "The portrait in the gallery? The one called The Young Woman in Repose? Will you let the curator know that she was not some anonymous person? Ardelia had a name, and I want them to know it. Everyone should know how much she meant to me." _ __

_ "I'll tell them." _

_ "We have no plans to call on you or your family. Are you taping this conversation?" _

_ "Yes." _

_ "Please sleep well tonight. Mason's blood should be clean from your hands, and know that mine and Will's never was." _

_ "Clarice, please--" _ __

_ "I have to go now. I'd love to sit and chat, but we're having an old friend for dinner. It would be terribly rude to keep him waiting." _

_ "Clarice? Clarice!" _

Clarice ends the call and tosses the mobile into a rubbish bin close by. She's been nursing a cool drink, just tonic water with mint. She has a little secret that she's been keeping from her men, though Hannibal is close to discovering it.

The man across the bar has been eyeing her legs. She crosses them slowly, just to give Paul Krendler the view he always wanted.

There are rumours that he is going to run for president, and the idea is something that Hannibal cannot stomach. He's seen many a discourteous person in so high a position, but none have had the bad grace to call his Clarice such foul names.

Paul looks her up and down, leering at her, but not seeing her for who she really is. Just like most of the people in Clarice's life, before.

She finishes her drink and stands, glancing at the club across the street. Two men sitting out front, looking very cool and relaxed in their linens, despite the heat. They are waiting for her, but there is no rush.

Paul leaves the bar before she does, whispering something so crass in her ear that she almost loses her temper. Instead, she smiles and titters, promising to meet him in his hotel room tomorrow. He pats her ass in farewell, his unwanted hand lingering for a few seconds too long. Will abruptly stands with fists clinched, but Hannibal takes his hand and calms him.

When Paul is out of sight, she walks to her lovers and sits with them, taking their hands in hers.

* * *

Is Clarice happy?

_ Well…  _ as with so many things in life, it depends on our point of view.

Ardelia stopped screaming in her dreams long ago, though Clarice often hears her speak when she views her life in the rooms of her memory palace. There, Ardelia is always in repose, a glass of wine in hand and smiling not unlike the  _ Mona Lisa _ . There is love there, and it abides.

And there is love in the now, both spoken and unspoken. She feels seen, for indeed the men who hold her dearly to them know her mind and body in ways that no one else ever has. She does not question their devotion, and at times she feels like the goddess that Hannibal often compares her to.

She watches Hannibal now, even as she strokes Will's knee. She has developed the habit of sleeping lightly, ever since the haze she experienced after she was shot. There is a painting, sitting in one of their homes, that is a farce of  _ The Creation of Adam _ . Hannibal, as God, reaches out to Will, patiently waiting for him to extend his hand. Clarice is tucked into Hannibal's side as though attached to him, but she only has eyes for her Adam.

Her helpmeet, one could say.

She was nervous when she first showed Hannibal the completed image. Sometimes she is aware that she knows too much about this man, and in another life, she would have worried over being a mere morsel of flesh in his eyes. When he laughed and kissed her, she managed to relax. And when he pressed her against the far wall, fucking her into the stucco until her back was raw, she couldn't figure out if he was pleased or perturbed with her cheek.

Knowing him as she does, the answer isn't important if her heart continues to beat within his hands.

"What are you thinking of, my beloved?" Will asks.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Hannibal looks at her, seeing her thoughts as he always does. His lips curve dangerously, and Clarice shivers despite the heat.

"Everything," she admits, and the answer seems to satisfy him. She leans against Will, taking his silent strength as her own.

The sun begins to set beyond the sea, and their world becomes golden. The music drifting to them from the club makes her hips wiggle, and when Hannibal holds out a hand, she cannot resist taking it. He's a graceful dancer for so tall a man, and he leads her effortlessly, despite her own inelegance.

"One day, you will dance for me and unveil yourself like Salome," he murmurs.

"Haven't I already?"

"Touché, my darling girl."

Will joins them, and if we know what is best for us, we will leave this trio to enjoy their evening. Paul Krendler may receive an earlier visit than expected, after all, and it simply wouldn't do if we witnessed the glorious event of his untimely death.

We can only know so much about these three and live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may flesh out the story of Hannibal and Clarice's relationship when she was an art student, one day. I only got hints and whispers about their conversations while writing this story, and if the rest ever materializes, I'll be sure to share. A part of me is afraid to look into that part of my version of Clarice's life, for I may find a little too much of myself if I stare into that abyss. 'Write what you know' was said by a damn fool.
> 
> As you can tell, I was heavily influenced by Nick Cave’s ‘Cannibal’s Hymn’ while writing. I actually got the muse whispering the plot to me, after a solid binge of Hannibal when it came on the Netflix. I was in the shower, listening to said song, and I couldn’t get the thought of Clarice trying not to get eaten out of my brain. I can also see, while editing, that Lana Del Rey’s ‘Gods & Monsters’ was also floating around somewhere in my own memory palace. The muse was probably listening to it, whilst he was showing the story to me.
> 
> Thank you for humoring me by reading this tale. All characters are not mine, save for one Special Agent Landon Johnson. In my mind Landon looks and sounds a lot like my uncle, who was once a Supervisory Special Agent. He once told me, when I was young and wanting to be just like him, to never follow in his footsteps in the FBI. I listened, but will always harbour a tinge of regret.
> 
> Any lines or words that look familiar, they also belong to someone else. 
> 
> All artwork is my own.
> 
> Ta-ta, for now.
> 
> Kay


End file.
